MEXICAN 

SIERRAS 


DILLON  WALLACE 


Hugh  Craggs 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/beyondmexicansieOOwall 


BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


We  stood  on  the  throne  of  the  gods,  with  their  kingdom  at  our  feet 


BEYOND  THE 
MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


BY 

DILLON  WALLACE 

Author  of  “The  Long  Labrador  Trail/* 
“Ungava  Bob,”  Etc. 


WITH  75  ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS  BY 
THE  AUTHOR , AND  A MAP 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG  & CO. 
1910 


Copyright 

A.  C.  McClurg  & Co. 
1910 


Published,  April  23,  1910 


Entered  at  Stationed  Hall,  London,  England 


THE  • PLIMPTON  • PRESS 


NORWOOD  • MASS  • U • 8 • A 


THIS  BOOK 

IS  AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 
TO 

REVEREND  THERON  BRITTAIN 

MY  BOYHOOD  PASTOR  AND 
LIFELONG  FRIEND 


White  crosses  in  the  mountain  pass, 

Mules  gay  with  tassels,  the  loud  din 
Of  muleteers,  the  tethered  ass 
That  crops  the  dusty  wayside  grass, 

And  cavaliers  with  spurs  of  brass 
Alighting  at  the  inn. 

• • • • • 

Ah  yes,  the  hills  are  white  with  snow, 

And  cold  with  blasts  that  bite  and  freeze; 
But  in  the  happy  vale  below 
The  orange  and  pomegranate  grow, 

And  wafts  of  air  toss  to  and  fro 
The  blossoming  almond-trees. 


Longfellow’s  “Castles  in  Spain.” 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 


In  presenting  this  volume  I desire  to  acknowledge 
with  gratitude  assistance  rendered  me  by  the  following 
gentlemen  in  collecting  much  of  the  material  which  it 
contains : 

Mr.  Louis  Kaiser,  United  States  Consul  at  Mazatlan; 
Mr.  Eugen  Hildebrand,  German  Consul  at  Tepic;  Mr. 
Edwin  Emerson;  Mr.  J.  C.  McCarthy;  Mr.  Boon 
Barker;  Dr.  A.  R.  Goodman,  Surgeon  General  Mexi- 
can National  Line  Railway;  Mr.  Warren  H.  Fiske; 
Mr.  Caryl  Davis  Haskins  and  Mr.  Wilmot  Randall. 


New  York, 

February  1,  1910. 


D.  W. 


INTRODUCTION 


“ /^v  F all  that  extensive  empire  which  once  ac- 
I 1 knowledged  the  authority  of  Spain  in  the 
New  World,  no  portion,  for  interest  and  im- 
portance, can  be  compared  with  Mexico  — and  this 
equally  whether  we  consider  the  variety  of  its  soil  and 
climate;  the  inexhaustible  stores  of  its  mineral  wealth; 
its  scenery,  grand  and  picturesque  beyond  example ; the 
character  of  its  ancient  inhabitants,  not  only  far  sur- 
passing in  intelligence  that  of  the  other  North  Ameri- 
can races,  but  reminding  us,  by  their  monuments,  of 
the  primitive  civilizations  of  Egypt  and  Hindustan; 
or,  lastly,  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  Conquest, 
adventurous  and  romantic  as  any  legend  devised  by 
Norman  or  Italian  bard  of  chivalry.” 

These  are  Prescott’s  words  of  introduction  to  that 
fascinating  classic,  “The  Conquest  of  Mexico.”  In- 
accurate as  he  may  have  been  in  his  estimate  of  the 
extent  and  magnificence  of  the  Aztec  Empire,  Pres- 
cott made  no  exaggeration  in  his  measure  of  the 
country  itself.  Indeed,  I am  tempted  to  enlarge  his 
comparison,  and  assert  that  in  all  the  two  continents 
of  the  Western  Hemisphere  there  is  no  area  of  equal 
extent  that  can  approach  Mexico  in  wealth  of  natural 
resources,  variety  of  climate,  grandeur  of  scenery, 
prehistoric  ruins,  and  romantic  history. 

How  many  of  us  who  live  north  of  the  Rio  Grande 
know  that  within  the  borders  of  our  neighbor  republic 


IX 


X 


INTRODUCTION 


to  the  south  there  is  embraced  a territory  larger  than 
that  of  France,  Germany,  Italy,  Spain,  The  Nether- 
lands, Belgium,  and  Switzerland  combined?  That 
Mexico  is  one-quarter  as  large  as  the  United  States? 
That  she  has  a coast  line  of  six  thousand  miles?  That 
within  her  borders  practically  every  product  of  the 
soil  of  the  tropical  and  temperate  zones  can  be  grown 
to  perfection?  That  she  has  vast  primordial  forests 
and  incalculable,  inexhaustible  wealth  of  minerals? 
That  here  are  the  remains  of  cities  that  were  ancient 
ruins,  and  whose  buildings  and  origin  had  been  lost 
in  the  dust  of  dead  and  mouldering  centuries,  before 
the  foundations  of  Rome  were  laid? 

Cut  in  twain  by  the  Tropic  of  Cancer,  lying  par- 
tially in  the  torrid  and  partially  in  the  north  temperate 
zone,  we  are  wont  to  class  Mexico  as  an  equatorial 
country,  and  ascribe  to  her  generally  the  unhealth- 
ful climatic  conditions  to  which  such  lands  are  sub- 
ject. While  this  is  true  to  a greater  or  less  extent  of 
the  States  in  the  extreme  south,  and  of  a lowland  belt 
that  lines  both  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific  seaboards,  it 
is  an  entirely  erroneous  impression  as  applied  to  Mexico 
as  a whole.  Her  great  central  plateau  lies  at  an  aver- 
age altitude  of  more  than  six  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea,  with  an  even  and  salubrious  climate  that 
approaches  the  ideal. 

That  Mexico  has  been  so  long  misunderstood  is 
due  largely,  if  not  wholly,  to  the  unfortunate  methods 
of  her  early  colonization  and  the  heritage  of  bad  laws 
and  bad  government  that  her  Spanish  conquerors 
left  behind  them.  The  Spaniards  were  never  colo- 
nizers in  the  true  sense  of  the  word.  They  neglected 
agricultural  possibilities  in  their  search  for  gold  and 


INTRODUCTION 


xi 


a fabled  fountain  of  perpetual  youth,  and  lost  sight 
of  the  real  wealth  inherent  in  the  countries  they  con- 
quered. When  the  English  planted  their  colonies  in 
New  England  their  sole  attention  was  turned  to  agri- 
cultural pursuits.  With  untiring  energy  they  cleared 
the  rugged  hills  of  forest  and  rock,  and  transformed 
the  wilderness  into  fertile  farms  that  were  the  basis 
of  the  New  World’s  wealth.  When  Brigham  Young 
led  his  little  band  into  Salt  Lake  Valley,  and  planted 
his  settlements  amidst  sage-brush  and  sand  in  the 
Great  American  Desert,  he  said  to  his  followers: 
"Leave  the  hunt  for  gold  to  others.  Bring  down  the 
waters  from  the  mountains,  irrigate  and  make  these 
wastes  fertile.  Raise  grain  and  cattle,  sell  your 
product  to  the  miners,  and  soon  you  will  possess  all 
the  gold  they  gather  in  the  hills.”  It  was  strict 
observance  of  this  sage  advice  of  the  far-seeing  prophet 
that  turned  the  barren  sands  of  the  desert  valley  into 
one  of  the  richest  garden  spots  upon  the  continent, 
and  built  into  the  Union  the  great  State  of  Utah. 
But  Spain  in  her  insatiable  thirst  for  gold  was  blinded 
to  the  possibilities  held  out  to  her  by  the  fertile  lands 
of  her  tropical  and  sub-tropical  possessions,  and  these 
rich  lands  with  all  they  held  of  wealth  and  power  were 
left  untamed  and  uncultivated. 

Another  grave  error  in  Spanish  colonization  was  the 
Spaniards’  failure  to  take  their  women  with  them. 
Without  women  no  colonization  can  be  successful  or 
permanent.  This  our  English  forbears  in  their  wis- 
dom foresaw,  and  no  English  colony  was  planted  in 
the  New  World  without  its  quota  of  women.  The 
Spaniards  consorted  with  Indian  women,  and  the 
resulting  offspring  was  Indian,  not  Spanish;  for  in 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

the  mixture  of  races  it  is  the  mother’s  blood  that  pre- 
dominates, and  it  is  from  the  mother  who  rears  the 
offspring  in  the  land  of  her  nativity,  not  from  the 
alien  father,  engaged  in  his  own  selfish  pursuits,  that 
children  inherit  their  instincts,  or  at  least  receive  their 
training.  Therefore  it  came  about  that  in  time  the 
conquered  vanquished  the  conqueror,  and  more  than 
three-fifths  of  the  population  of  Mexico  to-day  is 
Indian. 

Had  Spain  followed  the  English  method  of  settling 
and  developing  her  American  possessions,  it  is  safe  to 
say  that  history  would  not  have  recorded  her  ignomini- 
ous fall  from  power,  and  the  United  States  would 
never  have  wrested  from  Mexico  that  vast  empire 
beyond  the  Rockies. 

During  the  three  centuries  of  Spanish  occupation, 
the  mass  of  native  inhabitants  of  Mexico,  reduced  to 
slavery  and  serfdom,  bowed  under  the  lash  of  the 
hidalgo  and  cowed  by  the  sword  of  a cruel  and  inhuman 
soldiery,  lost  their  initiative  and  self-reliance.  They 
were  denied  freedom  of  thought  as  well  as  of  action. 
Under  the  pain  of  death  they  were  forced  to  relinquish 
their  old  ideals  of  morality  and  religion,  and  accept 
instead  bigotry,  sensualism,  and  superstition. 

Their  ancient  temples,  of  no  mean  architecture, 
their  artistic  handiwork,  their  laws  and  government, 
demonstrate  that  these  people  were  not  lacking  in 
genius.  The  Abb6  Clavigero  declared  that  their 
mental  qualities  were  not  in  the  least  inferior  to  those 
of  the  Europeans,  and  that  with  proper  educational 
opportunities  and  training  they  would  rival  the  first 
in  Europe  in  science,  philosophy,  and  the  arts.  But 
what  progress  can  be  made  by  any  people  existing  in 


INTRODUCTION 


xiii 


poverty  above  which  they  are  not  permitted  to  rise, 
bound  to  servitude,  and  hounded  by  oppression?  At 
last  Spain,  through  her  selfish  methods  of  govern- 
ment, her  failure  to  colonize  and  develop,  and  her 
profligacy,  was  banished  from  the  land,  and  the  people 
came  into  their  own.  Smothered,  but  not  dead,  the 
spirit  of  liberty  asserted  itself,  the  slaves  flew  to  arms, 
and  freedom  was  won. 

For  more  than  sixty  years  after  gaining  her  inde- 
pendence, Mexico,  like  all  of  the  Spanish-American 
countries,  was  subjected  to  an  almost  incessant  up- 
heaval of  civil  war  and  change  of  government. 
She  was  the  prey  of  adventurous  politicians  and 
ambitious  soldiers  who  instituted  revolutions  with  or 
without  cause,  but  generally  with  no  other  object  in 
view  than  personal  aggrandizement  and  pecuniary 
profit.  This  was  the  period  of  adjustment.  It  takes 
long  to  raise  a people  from  the  condition  of  ignorant 
slaves  to  that  of  enlightened  freemen.  The  traditions 
of  three  hundred  years  of  oppression  and  subjection 
to  stringent  military  rule  cannot  be  overcome  in  a gen- 
eration. One  form  of  government  followed  another 
in  quick  succession,  each  rising  or  falling  according  to 
the  strength  of  the  militant  faction  which  supported 
it.  Regents,  emperors,  presidents,  and  dictators 
came  and  went,  until  at  length  a Moses  was  raised  in 
Porfirio  Diaz  to  lead  his  people  out  of  the  wilderness 
of  intrigue  and  war  to  the  portals  of  peace  and 
material  prosperity. 

We  are  all  familiar  with  the  history  of  the  French 
invasion,  the  banishment  of  President  Benito  Juarez 
from  Mexico  City,  and  the  attempt  to  establish  in 
Mexico  an  hereditary  monarchy  with  the  unfortunate 


XIV 


INTRODUCTION 


Maximilian  on  the  throne  as  emperor.  This  was  during 
the  period  of  the  Civil  War  in  the  United  States.  It 
was  not  until  that  struggle  had  ended  and  peace  was 
declared,  that  the  United  States  finally  found  itself 
in  position  to  defend  the  Monroe  Doctrine  and  inci- 
dentally to  free  Mexico.  With  a hundred  thousand 
veterans  held  in  readiness  to  be  thrown  across  the 
Mexican  frontier  against  the  French  invaders,  France 
was  notified  by  the  United  States  that  continued  or 
further  interference  on  her  part  in  the  affairs  of  this 
continent  would  not  be  tolerated.  The  French  army 
was  promptly  and  discreetly  withdrawn,  the  republi- 
can army  of  Mexico  overthrew  the  Empire,  captured 
and  shot  Maximilian,  the  Emperor,  and  established  a 
new  republic. 

After  the  fall  of  the  Empire  the  long-banished  Presi- 
dent, Benito  Juarez,  returned  to  the  capital  and  re- 
sumed control  of  the  government.  In  1872  he  died 
and  was  succeeded  by  Lerdo  de  Tejada.  During 
Juarez’s  term  of  office  incipient  fighting  between  fac- 
tions was  almost  constantly  in  progress  throughout  the 
country.  After  Lerdo  de  Tejada  assumed  the  Presi- 
dency the  smouldering  ashes  of  discontent  broke  out 
into  the  flame  of  war,  and  in  1876  the  insurgent  army, 
led  by  General  Porfirio  Diaz,  obtained  a sweeping 
victory  over  the  regulars  and  triumphantly  took  pos- 
session of  Mexico  City.  Lerdo  de  Tejada  fled  to  the 
United  States  and  Diaz  was  proclaimed  President. 

Diaz,  with  the  exception  of  a few  months’  inter- 
mission, when  he  was  relieved  by  General  Juan  N. 
Mendez,  served  until  1880,  when  he  was  succeeded  by 
General  Manuel  Gonzalez.  In  1884  the  populace  again 
called  for  Diaz,  who  was  looked  upon  as  liberator, 


INTRODUCTION 


xv 


and  he  was  overwhelmingly  reelected,  and  returned  to 
the  Presidency,  to  lead  his  country  out  of  its  meshes 
of  revolution,  and  weld  it  into  a solid  whole. 

No  imaginative  writer  has  ever  created  for  his  hero 
a more  romantic  life  of  stirring  adventure  than  has 
fallen  to  the  lot  of  Porfirio  Diaz.  When  he  was  but 
three  years  of  age  his  father  died,  and  in  the  midst 
of  poverty  the  boy  grew  to  manhood.  His  mother 
desired  that  he  should  enter  the  priesthood,  and  he 
began  his  studies  with  that  in  view.  But  he  was  not 
designed  for  a priest.  The  blood  of  battle  was  in  his 
veins,  and  at  an  early  age  he  threw  himself  with  all 
the  impetuosity  of  his  Indian  ancestors  into  the  revo- 
lutionary struggles  of  his  country.  No  one  can  doubt 
his  patriotic  motives.  He  had  a keen  sense  of  right 
and  wrong,  and  the  moral  and  physical  courage  to 
espouse  the  side  that  he  believed  to  be  in  the  right, 
irrespective  of  its  weakness  or  power.  He  rose  to 
prominence  during  the  struggle  against  the  French. 
Many  times  he  was  captured  but  always  succeeded  in 
making  miraculous  and  thrilling  escapes.  More  than 
once  he  was  condemned  to  death.  With  scorn  he 
refused  bribes  that  would  have  made  him  rich  but  a 
traitor  to  his  conscience  and  his  country.  At  last  he 
conquered.  Right  always  conquers  in  the  end.  Por- 
firio Diaz  is  to-day  perhaps  the  most  remarkable  man 
in  the  world,  and  a man  whom  all  the  world  honors 
and  respects. 

When  Diaz  came  to  the  Presidency  of  Mexico  in 
1876  the  country  was  infested  with  bandits.  No  man’s 
life  was  safe  in  the  rural  districts.  Every  stranger 
was  watched  with  a view  to  robbery,  and  the  haciendas 
were  constantly  subject  to  attack  by  armed  brigands. 


XVI 


INTRODUCTION 


The  treasury  was  empty  and  the  country  was  bank- 
rupt. War  had  laid  waste  the  land;  and  the  people, 
so  long  accustomed  to  strife,  were  turned  from  peace- 
ful living. 

To  put  the  new  government  upon  a stable  and  firm 
foundation  was  no  easy  task.  Ambitious  politicians 
who  had  formed  the  habit  of  revolution  had  to  be 
watched,  and  subdued  with  a firm  hand.  Laws  were 
passed  abolishing  the  death  penalty  for  political 
offences,  but  it  is  an  open  secret  that  unwholesome 
aspirants  to  power  mysteriously  disappeared  and  were 
heard  of  no  more.  Diaz,  President  in  name,  became 
Dictator  in  fact.  One-man  power  was  perhaps  the 
only  way  to  secure  peace  and  material  advancement  in 
a land  with  so  emotional  a population,  made  up  of 
an  incongruous  mixture  of  Indian  and  Spanish  blood, 
with  the  former’s  instinct  for  fighting  and  the  latter’s 
love  for  show  and  power,  and  both  with  quick  and 
fiery  tempers.  Such  a population  could  not  be 
depended  upon  to  at  once  appreciate  true  republican- 
ism. It  is  not  in  the  nature  of  such  people  to  relin- 
quish individual  aspirations  without  a struggle  and 
become  at  once  quiet  citizens  of  a republic.  It  is  no  easy 
undertaking  to  overcome  traditions  of  revolutionary 
strife  in  any  land  where  the  strife  has  lasted  through 
generations. 

Diaz  began  with  a thorough  reorganization  and  dis- 
tribution of  the  army.  The  rurales  (the  famous  and 
efficient  mounted  police  force)  relentlessly  hunted  the 
bandits  to  their  retreats,  with  the  result  that  travel 
is  as  safe  in  Mexico  to-day  as  in  the  United  States, 
save  perhaps  in  a few  outlying  and  isolated  districts. 
Revolutionary  uprisings  were  promptly  quelled,  and 


INTRODUCTION 


xvu 


the  people  turned  to  peaceful  pursuits  and  the  develop- 
ment of  their  country. 

Then  came  the  process  of  forming  and  passing 
liberal  laws  for  the  protection  of  property  and  the 
attraction  of  foreign  capital.  Mexico  was  poor,  and 
the  Government  realized  that  no  great  advancement 
could  be  made  in  her  material  prosperity  without 
foreign  aid.  The  railroad  is  the  great  civilizer  of  the 
present  day.  Until  it  comes  little  can  be  hoped  for 
in  national  upbuilding,  and  here  was  driven  the  enter- 
ing wedge. 

Two  or  three  minor  roads  were  in  operation  when 
Diaz  began  his  first  administration.  A British  com- 
pany undertook  the  construction  of  a line  from  Vera 
Cruz  to  the  capital  in  1857,  but  the  vicissitudes  of 
war  delayed  its  completion  until  1873;  and  in  the 
West,  in  the  early  seventies,  an  insignificant  railroad, 
forty-five  miles  in  length,  was  built  between  Culiacan, 
the  capital  of  the  State  of  Sinaloa,  and  its  seaport, 
Altata. 

But  the  first  real  beginning  in  Mexican  railroad 
enterprises  took  place  on  February  25,  1880,  when  the 
State  of  Massachusetts  granted  a charter  to  the 
“Mexican  Central  Railroad  Company,  Limited.”  This 
company  was  organized  by  a group  of  United  States 
capitalists  for  the  purpose  of  connecting  Mexico  City 
with  the  United  States,  and  opening  to  development 
the  wide  area  of  plateau  that  intervened.  With  the 
far-sighted,  broad-minded  policy  that  has  character- 
ized the  administration  of  President  Diaz,  the  most 
liberal  concessions  and  fullest  encouragement  were 
given  the  new  enterprise.  In  addition  to  extensive 
land  grants  and  an  average  subsidy  of  about  $15,000 


XV111 


INTRODUCTION 


per  mile,  it  was  agreed  that  all  material  necessary  for 
the  construction  and  operation  of  the  railroad  should 
be  admitted  free  of  duty  for  a period  of  fifteen  years,  i 
and  for  fifty  years  after  its  completion  the  line  should 
be  free  from  taxation. 

To-day  the  Mexican  Central  Railroad  owns  a total  j 
of  3,426  miles  of  line,  and  the  “National  Lines,”  com-  I 
posed  of  the  National,  International,  and  Interoceanic 
Railroads,  3,500  miles,  to  say  nothing  of  two  new 
trunk  lines,  the  Kansas  City,  Mexico,  and  Orient  Rail-  j 
road,  and  the  new  Pacific  Coast  Line,  the  latter  when 
completed  to  connect  the  Southern  Pacific  Railroad  in 
the  United  States  with  Mexico  City,  and  a dozen  or  so 
smaller  railroads  in  the  East  and  South,  giving  Mexico 
in  all  nearly  eighteen  thousand  miles  of  railway. 

The  Mexican  Government  a few  years  ago  secured 
a controlling  interest  in  the  National  Lines,  and  within 
the  last  three  years  of  the  Central  Lines,  resulting  in 
a recent  merger  of  the  two  systems.  The  manage- 
ment, however,  is  still,  and  doubtless  will  remain,  in 
the  hands  of  Americans. 

The  liberal  laws  as  to  railroads  have  been  extended 
in  other  directions.  Foreigners  can  now  own  real 
estate  as  freely  in  Mexico  as  in  the  least  restricted  of 
our  States. 

Since  Mexico  gained  her  independence  from  Spain, 
it  has  been  her  effort  to  attract  immigration.  The 
“Prosperidad  General”  passed  in  1827  was  designed 
to  give  impetus  to  this,  but  failed  in  its  object.  Other 
efforts  were  made  in  1846,  again  in  1868  and  in  1877,  j 
but  without  success.  These  failures  to  attract  immi- 
grants may  be  assigned  to  various  reasons.  During 
the  half-century  between  1827  and  1877,  when  the 


INTRODUCTION 


XIX 


country  was  almost  continually  in  the  throes  of  revo- 
lution or  incipient  uprisings,  settlers  had  no  guarantee 
that  they  would  be  protected  from  pillage.  Brigand- 
age was  rife  and  prospective  settlers  in  agricultural 
districts  had  no  assurance  of  security  from  raids  of 
bandit  bands.  Markets  for  produce  were  limited. 
Railroads  had  not  yet  opened  up  any  considerable 
sections  of  the  country,  and  transportation  of  goods 
and  passengers  could  be  accomplished  only  on  mule 
or  horseback.  These  obstacles  in  themselves  were 
sufficient  to  deter  the  ordinary  immigrant. 

In  1883  a new  immigration  law  was  passed  and  a 
fresh  effort  made  to  attract  foreign  settlers.  This 
enactment  guaranteed  exemption  from  military  ser- 
vice and  provided  for  the  admission  duty  free  of 
agricultural  tools,  implements,  and  machinery,  animals 
for  breeding  purposes,  household  furniture,  and  articles 
for  consumption  not  manufactured  or  produced  in  the 
country.  It  further  relieved  the  settler  from  all  except 
municipal  taxes.  But  still  no  satisfactory  influx  of 
immigrants  took  place,  or  has  taken  place  to  the 
present  day. 

This  lack  of  response  I believe  may  be  traced  to 
several  underlying  conditions.  In  its  effort  to  col- 
onize undeveloped  sections  of  its  territory  every  nation 
must  look  for  settlers  amongst  people  of  moderate 
means  — those  who  wish  to  acquire  homes  for  them- 
selves, and  laborers  seeking  profitable  employment. 
The  wealthy  investor  is  not  the  man  that  builds  up 
a country,  but  is  only  a minor  factor  to  that  end,  and 
follows  the  homeseeker. 

Mexico  has  failed  to  see  this.  Her  public  lands  have 
never  been  surveyed  into  sections  and  quarter-sec- 


XX 


INTRODUCTION 


tions,  available  at  small  initial  cost,  but  have  been 
offered  in  immense  tracts  embracing  thousands  of 
acres,  the  acquirement  of  which  has  been  quite  out 
of  reach  of  the  poor  man.  She  has  depended  upon 
capitalists,  purchasing  large  estates,  to  survey  their 
purchases  at  their  own  expense,  and  at  their  own 
expense  lure  colonists  to  settle  upon  them.  This  capi- 
talists have  not  done.  They  have  been  content  to 
develop  with  native  labor  only  sufficient  acreage  to 
carry  running  expenses  and  pay  a small  percentage 
on  the  capital  invested,  leaving  the  greater  portion 
of  their  haciendas  wild  and  unreclaimed  wilderness. 
Therefore  Mexico’s  fertile  soil  has  lain  idle,  while  the 
homeseeker  has  been  populating  our  own  unsettled 
West  and  building  Canada  into  a great  and  powerful 
nation.  It  is  true,  a few  isolated  colonies  have  been 
formed,  notably  those  of  the  Mormons  and  Boers,  but 
they  are  comparatively  small  and  insignificant. 

Another  reason  for  the  failure  of  Mexico  to  attract 
immigration  is  the  general  misconception  of  her  cli- 
mate. The  average  American  and  European  believes 
Mexico  to  be  a hot  and  humid  equatorial  land,  reeking 
in  fever  and  disease,  and  nothing  has  been  done  by 
the  Government  in  the  way  of  judicious  advertising 
to  disabuse  the  world  of  this  belief.  Mexicans  them- 
selves know  that  the  larger  portion  of  their  country 
has  a climate  corresponding  to  that  of  Southern 
France  and  Italy,  and  they  have  taken  it  for  granted 
that  all  the  earth  knew  it  too. 

The  Pacific  State  of  Sinaloa  is  about  to  try  the  experi- 
ment of  introducing  American  colonization  methods. 
The  late  enlightened  Governor  of  that  State  a few 
years  ago  granted  an  American  corporation  a con- 


INTRODUCTION 


XXI 


cession  to  survey  the  agricultural  lands  of  Sinaloa, 
giving  a certain  proportion  of  the  lands  surveyed  as 
compensation  for  the  work.  The  survey  is  now  prac- 
tically completed,  and  the  American  company,  with 
title  to  considerably  more  than  two  millions  of  acres, 
has  already  begun  the  installation  of  irrigation  plants, 
and  proposes  to  offer  its  holdings,  in  small  ranches, 
to  prospective  settlers  from  the  United  States.  The 
officers  of  this  company  have  developed  sections  of 
the  fruit-growing  country  of  Southern  California,  and 
are  men  of  experience.  I can  see  no  reason  why  their 
undertaking  should  not  meet  with  entire  success. 

Sinaloa  has  a deeper,  richer  soil  than  Southern  Cali- 
fornia, it  has  a wider  range  of  crop  possibilities,  there 
is  an  abundance  of  water,  for  eight  months  of  the  year 
the  climate  is  ideal,  and  the  new  railroad  will  open 
markets  for  corn,  fruit,  sugar,  and  other  products  of 
the  temperate  and  torrid  zones,  which  grow  here  to 
perfection.  It  is  particularly  adapted  to  banana, 
orange,  and  pineapple  culture.  Corn,  barley,  and 
alfalfa  yield  enormously  — in  some  instances  three 
crops  of  cereals  a year;  coffee  of  good  quality,  excep- 
tionally fine  sugar-cane,  tobacco,  and  cotton  give  large 
returns,  while  sisal  fibre  grows  spontaneously.  Lack 
of  transportation  facilities  has  hitherto  left  Sinaloa 
State  and  Tepic  Territory  isolated,  little  known,  and 
undeveloped;  but  with  the  railroad  in  operation,  this 
should  bloom  into  the  richest  and  most  prosperous 
district  in  all  Mexico. 

In  this  connection  a word  of  warning  should  be 
sounded  to  small  investors.  The  average  American 
knows  less  about  Mexico  and  the  conditions  that  pre- 
vail there  than  he  knows  of  South  Africa.  In  a 


XXII 


INTRODUCTION 


vague,  uncertain  way  he  has  come  to  believe  in  the 
country’s  wonderful  possibilities,  but  he  has  no  defi- 
nite knowledge. 

Placing  their  faith  in  this  lack  of  information,  get- 
rich-quick  operators,  chiefly  in  Chicago,  New  York, 
and  our  northeastern  States,  have  widely  advertised 
shares  in  rubber  plantations,  orange  or  banana  groves, 
and  sent  out  alluring  circulars  promising  a life  income 
to  investors  who  are  usually  permitted  to  pay  for 
stock  in  instalments.  Nearly  all  of  these  schemes  are 
fraudulent.  Owners  of  Mexican  haciendas  that  pay 
reasonable  dividends  are  not  philanthropists,  and  pre- 
fer to  keep  the  dividends  themselves.  They  do  not 
let  outsiders  in.  Companies  organized  to  purchase  and 
develop  haciendas  on  the  instalment  or  general  stock 
distribution  basis  are  organized  only  for  the  enrich- 
ment of  the  promoters.  As  a rule  they  are  chimerical 
and  no  dividend  is  ever  paid  upon  stock  from  the  actual 
earnings  of  the  hacienda,  though  sometimes,  for  the 
allurement  of  new  victims,  dividends  are  declared  and 
paid  out  of  moneys  collected  for  stock  sold.  It  rarely 
occurs  that  promoters  ever  make  an  honest  effort  to 
develop  the  properties  purchased.  That  would  cost 
money,  and  they  prefer  to  put  the  ready  cash  directly 
into  their  pockets. 

This  is  too  frequently  the  case,  also,  with  Mexican 
mining  companies.  The  recent  colossal  copper,  gold, 
and  silver  mining  failures,  reported  by  the  news- 
papers, were  conceived  in  fraud.  I do  not  wish  to  be 
understood  here  as  asserting  that  all  mining  proposi- 
tions, or  even  a considerable  proportion  of  them,  are 
fraudulent;  I am  simply  sounding  a warning  against 
dishonest  promoters,  and  suggesting  a thorough  inves- 


INTRODUCTION 


xxiii 


tigation  on  the  part  of  prospective  investors.  Un- 
doubtedly the  richest  mineral  lands  on  this  continent 
lie  in  Mexico,  and  large  amounts  of  American  capital 
are  invested  in  many  well  paying  mines  now  in  opera- 
tion; and  they  represent  only  a beginning  of  what  may 
be  expected. 

Here,  too,  the  Government  is  awake.  Exceedingly 
liberal  laws  have  been  passed,  for  the  purpose  of  indu- 
cing development  — more  liberal  laws  than  our  own. 
The  troublesome  restrictions  laid  down  in  former 
statutes  have  been  repealed,  and  government  officials 
are  instructed  to  aid  American  investors  with  accurate 
information.  Their  duty  is  to  see  that  mining  claims 
are  correctly  registered,  papers  drawn  in  due  legal 
form,  and  in  general  to  protect  those  who  undertake 
mining  operations.  The  mining  laws  have  been  printed 
in  English  and  Spanish  for  general  distribution,  and 
may  be  had  at  nominal  cost  upon  application  to  the 
Government. 

There  is  great  need  of  custom  smelters  in  Western 
Mexico.  The  erection  of  these  will  be  made  possible 
as  railroad  construction  progresses,  and  mines  now  in 
operation  are  made  more  accessible  and  new  mines 
opened. 

Americans  are  discovering  that  Mexico  offers  large 
inducements  to  manufacturing  industries,  and  con- 
siderable American  capital  is  already  invested  in  vari- 
ous parts  of  the  country.  But  it  is  only  a beginning. 
Water  powers  are  numerous  and  open  to  denounce- 
ment. Innumerable  opportunities  await  the  enter- 
prising manufacturer  who  takes  advantage  of  this 
new  field,  and  he  may  be  well  assured  of  Government 
protection  and  liberal  treatment. 


XXIV 


INTRODUCTION 


The  best  cotton  in  the  world  is  grown  in  Mexico, 
and  there  is  room  for  many  mills.  The  entire  crop 
is  now  required  for  local  consumption,  with  a rapidly 
growing  demand.  There  is  wide  opportunity  for  sugar 
mills,  fruit  canning,  iron  and  wood  working,  and  very 
many  other  lines  of  manufacture,  and  their  establish- 
ment is  courted  by  the  Government.  Vast  coal  fields 
await  exploration  and  exploitation,  and  when  the  work- 
ings are  opened  steel  and  iron  industries  should  spring 
up.  At  present  the  large  iron  deposits  are  practically 
untouched  and  nearly  all  the  coal  consumed  in  the 
Republic  is  imported  from  the  United  States  and 
England. 

Peon  labor  is  cheap.  The  usual  rate  is  from  twenty- 
five  to  seventy-five  cents  (gold)  per  day  (depending 
upon  local  conditions  and  sections),  for  the  ordinary 
laborer,  and  ranging  to  a dollar  and  a half  for  more  or 
less  skilled  workmen.  Generally  speaking,  the  peon 
lacks  thrift.  His  needs  are  small,  his  opportunities 
limited,  and  he  is  content  with  what  he  has.  Save  on 
the  numerous  fiesta  days  he  works  steadily,  however, 
and  on  the  whole  can  be  depended  upon.  On  fiesta 
days  he  gives  himself  over  to  pleasure,  partakes  freely 
of  the  native  intoxicants,  pulque  and  mescal,  and 
gambles  away  his  earnings.  He  may  not  be  held  up 
to  the  world  as  an  example  of  honesty. 

Previous  to  1888,  Germany,  France,  and  Great 
Britain  controlled  a large  share  of  the  trade  of  Mexico. 
Forty  years  ago  Great  Britain  practically  monopolized 
it.  In  recent  years  these  countries  have  made  com- 
paratively small  advance,  while  the  United  States  has 
come  strongly  to  the  front.  In  the  fiscal  year  ending 
with  June,  1907,  the  imports  from  Germany,  Great 


INTRODUCTION 


XXV 


Britain,  and  France  were  each  less  than  one-sixth 
those  from  the  United  States.  During  that  year  the 
imports  from  the  United  States  amounted  to  $146,- 
376,585.60,  while  the  exports  to  the  United  States 
reached  $175,809,123.63.  Germany,  on  the  other 
hand,  sold  Mexico  considerably  more  than  she  pur- 
chased from  her,  as  did  France. 

There  is  no  reason  why  the  United  States  should 
not  sell  Mexico  practically  everything  she  needs.  Our 
goods  are  equal  to  the  European  product,  and  often 
superior.  Close  proximity,  lower  transportation  rates, 
and  quick  delivery  are  all  in  our  favor.  One  obstacle, 
however,  that  frequently  stands  in  the  way  is  the 
failure  of  our  shippers  to  pack  goods  in  accordance 
with  instructions.  In  this  respect  the  Europeans  are 
much  more  particular,  and  on  this  ground  alone  often 
capture  orders  that  normally  would  come  to  us  if  we 
would  conform  strictly  to  directions.  All  goods  des- 
tined for  outlying  cities  and  towns,  at  a distance  from 
the  railroad,  must  be  packed  on  muleback  to  their 
destination.  With  this  in  view,  the  Mexican  mer- 
chant gives  with  his  orders  exact  instructions  as  to 
the  size  or  weight  of  packages  in  which  he  wishes 
goods  put  up.  Our  shippers  disregard  these  instruc- 
tions, and  not  infrequently  goods  arrive  in  Mexico  in 
great  unwieldy  cases,  necessitating  repacking  before 
transshipment  can  be  made. 

Customs  on  nearly  all  imports  are  reckoned  upon 
weight,  irrespective  of  cost.  All  invoices  should  there- 
fore state  this,  according  to  the  metric  system.  That 
is  the  system  used  in  Mexico,  and  generally  the  only 
one  understood  there. 

Financial  failures  in  Mexico  are  rare.  It  may  be 


XXVI 


INTRODUCTION 


said,  almost  without  qualification,  that  the  Mexican 
merchant  is  conservative,  trustworthy,  and  thrifty, 
and  discounts  his  bills  promptly.  When  he  sells 
goods  on  credit  he  is  well  assured  that  his  customer 
is  responsible,  and  when  he  purchases  he  knows  abso- 
lutely that  he  will  himself  be  in  a position  to  meet  his 
obligations.  Monopolies,  trusts,  and  corners  are  not 
permitted  in  the  Republic,  and  the  merchant  and  broker 
have  not  learned,  and  are  not  tempted,  to  venture 
into  high  finance. 

In  her  currency  reform  Mexico  is  approaching  the 
gold  standard,  and  it  may  be  said  is  even  now  upon 
a gold  basis.  She  has  established  and  guaranteed  by 
law  a fixed  ratio  between  her  gold  and  silver  mediums. 
The  peso  is  the  standard  of  value,  and  is  worth  fifty 
cents  United  States  money.  Gold  coins  are  rapidly 
coming  into  circulation.  These  are,  however,  of  so 
recent  coinage  that  during  my  journey  in  the  Winter 
of  1907-1908 1 had  difficulty  on  more  than  one  occasion 
in  persuading  the  folk  of  isolated  towns  that  they 
were  really  coins  of  the  country  and  legal  tender. 

When  Diaz  came  to  the  Presidency  the  National 
Treasury  was  empty  and  the  country  was  without 
credit.  Under  his  wise  administration  progression 
began  at  once,  but  the  country  was  very  poor  and  there 
seemed  no  way  to  equalize  the  receipts  and  disburse- 
ments of  the  Treasury.  Year  after  year  her  Finance 
Ministers  budgeted  to  a deficit,  and  the  Budget  Com- 
mittees accepted  the  condition  as  one  that  could  not 
be  remedied.  In  presenting  the  budget  for  the  fiscal 
year  1888-1889,  the  Committee  remarked: 

“Though  in  previous  years  the  members  of  the 
Budget  Commission  have  been  the  most  prominent 


INTRODUCTION 


xxvu 


men  in  the  country  in  a political  sense  — enlightened 
financiers,  possessing  great  experience  in  the  manage- 
ment of  public  revenue  — they  have  been  unable  to 
establish  equilibrium  between  the  receipts  and  dis- 
bursements of  the  Federal  Treasury.  The  under- 
signed commission  does  not  flatter  itself,  nay,  cannot 
flatter  itself,  at  having  achieved  that  earnestly  desired 
consummation,  for  it  is  almost  an  impossibility  in  the 
present  circumstances  of  the  country.” 

In  1893  Senor  Jose  Yves  Limantour  was  appointed 
Minister  of  Finance,  and  within  three  years  after  he 
entered  President  Diaz’s  Cabinet  accomplished  the 
“impossible.”  At  the  close  of  the  fiscal  year  1895- 
1896,  a surplus  of  $5,451,347  was  reported.  No  one 
could  credit  it.  It  was  too  great  a novelty  and  too 
extraordinary  an  occurrence  for  belief.  Steadily  the 
surplus  has  grown  under  the  wise  financiering  of 
Limantour,  until  in  the  fiscal  year  1906-1907  it 
reached  $29,000,000. 

When  Porfirio  Diaz  took  the  presidential  chair  in 
1884,  Mexico  could  not  have  floated  a loan  upon  any 
terms,  either  in  Europe  or  the  United  States.  In  1904 
banking  houses  in  Europe  and  the  United  States 
entered  into  keen  competition  to  secure  the  placing 
of  an  80,000,000  peso  ($40,000,000)  loan.  Representa- 
tives of  Berlin,  Paris,  and  New  York  banks  visited 
Mexico  City  to  bid  for  it.  A New  York  house  suc- 
ceeded, to  the  chagrin  and  disappointment  of  the  other 
competitors.  No  government  of  Europe  could  have 
obtained  better  terms  than  those  upon  which  Mexico 
secured  her  loan. 

A close  and  cordial  relationship  has  grown  up  be- 
tween ourselves  and  our  sister  Republic.  While  there 


XXV1U 


INTRODUCTION 


is  a feeling  amongst  the  unversed  — a feeling  engen- 
dered and  kept  aflame  by  a few  yellow  journals  of 
provincial  cities,  particularly  west  of  the  Sierras  — 
that  the  United  States  has  designs  upon  Mexican  ter- 
ritory and  hopes  for  ultimate  annexation,  I am  happy 
to  say  that  the  Administration  and  the  intelligent  citi- 
zens of  Mexico  do  not  entertain  it,  and  in  sincerity 
express  the  most  cordial  feeling  of  good-fellowship  for 
us,  and  heartily  welcome  Americans  to  their  land. 
They  recognize  our  mutual  interests,  and  their  friend- 
ship could  not  be  more  pronounced. 

Mexico  is  building  her  progress  upon  a firm  founda- 
tion. She  is  taking  long  strides  toward  a great  future. 
She  is  making  her  place  as  a power,  not  only  in  North 
America,  but  amongst  the  nations  of  the  world,  and 
we  of  the  United  States  are  glad  of  it.  She  has  prob- 
lems still  to  face,  first  of  which  is  perhaps  the  regenera- 
tion and  uplifting  of  her  peon  Indian  population. 

In  the  Spanish  days  the  peon  was  worked  under 
the  lash,  like  political  prisoners  in  Siberia.  His  life 
was  held  at  little  value.  He  was  kept  in  the  densest 
ignorance,  and  has  never  risen  above  it.  I have  known 
peons  in  Western  Mexico  who  did  not  know  whether 
their  country  was  a monarchy  or  a republic,  whether 
Montezuma  was  Emperor  or  Diaz  President.  Free 
public  schools  are  being  established  as  rapidly  as  pos- 
sible in  cities  and  towns,  and  will  doubtless  later  be 
extended  to  villages.  It  is  the  policy  of  the  Govern- 
ment to  educate  and  enlighten  its  people  by  this 
method,  and  bring  them  out  of  the  dead  past  into 
the  living  present.  Very  conservative  are  these  peons. 
They  are  slow  to  accept  new  methods  or  new  ideas. 
As  their  ancestors  ploughed  and  tilled,  so  they  plough 


INTRODUCTION 


XXIX 


and  till;  as  their  ancestors  lived  and  dressed  and 
thought,  so  do  they. 

A visit  to  Mexico  is  a revelation  to  the  traveller 
and  the  tourist.  Turning  for  a season  from  Europe  to 
the  South,  he  witnesses  the  incomparable  scenery  of 
this  old  new  land,  with  its  snow-capped  peaks,  its 
magnificent  mountain  heights,  its  awe-inspiring  can- 
yons, its  vast  plains,  its  picturesque  villages,  its  ancient 
ruins,  its  historic  towns,  and  quaint  corners.  He 
tarries  for  a while  in  the  cool  and  flowery  gardens,  and 
pauses  under  the  mighty  trees  that  threw  their  shade 
a thousand  years  ago.  Mexico  City  and  all  the  sur- 
rounding country  is  rich  in  legend  and  romantic 
history. 

And  the  hunter  and  sportsman?  Let  him  pitch  his 
camp  in  some  vast  pine  forest,  amid  the  lofty  peaks 
of  the  Sierras,  where  the  air  is  pure  and  the  brooks  run 
clear  as  crystal.  He  will  find  his  ideal  hunting-ground 
in  these  primeval  solitudes,  for  it  is  a wilderness 
abounding  in  game,  and  almost  unknown  and  un- 
explored. 


CONTENTS 


Chapter  Page 

Introduction ix 

I A Forgotten  Land 1 

II  In  Old  San  Blas 11 

III  The  Past  and  the  Present  ....  26 

IV  A Land  of  Promise  37 

V  The  Santiago  River  Trail  ....  47 

VI  A Look  at  the  Indians 54 

VII  The  Mystery  of  Treasure  Hill  . . 64 

VIII  The  Indian  and  the  Land  ....  69 

IX  On  the  Old  Stage  Road 82 

X  The  Hotel  and  the  Barber  ....  92 

XI  The  Capital  City  of  Tepic  ....  98 

XII  The  Fiesta  of  All  Souls  ....  109 

XIII  A Tragedy  in  Five  Acts 121 

XIV  Comedy  and  Tragedy  of  the  Trail  . 131 

XV  Amongst  the  Lagunas 137 

XVI  Mexcaltatan,  the  Mexican  Venice  . 143 

XVII  The  Parting  in  Mazatlan  Harbor  . . 157 

XVIII  North  of  the  Tropics 166 

XIX  A Wedding  and  a Bull-Fight  . . . 175 

XX  On  the  Edge  of  a Boom 184 

XXI  The  Trails  and  the  Prospectors  . . 190 

XXII  Into  the  Foothills 196 


XXXI 


XXX11 


CONTENTS 


Chapter  Page 

XXIII  Under  the  Shadow  of  the  Sierras  . 205 

XXIV  The  Throne  of  the  Gods  ....  213 

XXV  Lost  in  the  Snow 221 

XXVI  An  Old  Town  and  the  Mines  . . . 229 

XXVII  The  Indians  of  the  Mountains  . . 239 

XXVIII  A Glimpse  of  the  East 248 

XXIX  The  Canyon  Trail 262 

XXX  Mazatlan  and  Homeward  Bound  . . 272 

Appendix:  Mexico’s  Unhunted  Wilderness  . . 279 

Index 295 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

“ We  stood  on  the  throne  of  the  gods , with  their  kingdom 
at  our  feet  ” Frontispiece 

Page 

Mazatlan  harbor 8 

A cargadore 9 

Map  of  Mexico , showing  author’s  route  ....  12 

Cocoanut  palms 14 

A corner  of  the  market-place,  San  Bias  ....  15 

“The  officer  halted  and  smiled” 18 

Custom  house , San  Bias 19 

The  ruins  of  the  old  cathedral 22 

A corner  of  the  ruined  fortress 23 

A ruin  of  old  San  Bias 28 

A god  of  the  ancients 29 

Pack  train  on  the  road  to  Tepic 38 

“ Stately  palms  and  gigantic  ferns  lined  our  trail”  . 39 

Waiting  for  the  ferry  at  La  Presa 44 

A typical  wooden  cart  ( each  wheel  is  made  from  a log 
segment , the  pole  is  mahogany , and  no  iron  whatever 

is  used  in  construction) 45 

A water  pedler 50 

The  ferry  at  the  Caimonaro 51 

Water  carriers 58 

Canoe  dug  out  from  a single  log , capable  of  carrying  six 

thousand  pounds 59 

The  ploughman 70 

Jose , our  waiter  — an  Indian  youth  of  twenty  ...  71 

The  Tepic  stage  on  the  longest  stage  line  in  the  world  . 84 

A pack  train 85 

The  baby  mule 88 

xxxiii 


xxxiv  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 

A type  suggestive  of  the  Semitic 89 

Calle  de  Mexico , Tepic 94 

Hotel  del  Bolo  de  Oro , Tepic  City 95 

The  plaza,  Tepic  City 100 

A street  in  Tepic  101 

The  policeman  posed  for  his  photograph  . . . .106 

The  cemetery  and  chapel,  Tepic 107 

“ Boldly  they  have  carved  Lozado’s  name  upon  the  tomb”  112 

A view  over  Tepic  City 113 

The  ferry  at  Santiago  Ixcuintla 132 

Gardens  of  tuna  cactus 133 

u Under  the  uncertain  shade  of  one  scrubby  and  solitary 

tree,  we  deposited  our  belongings ” 140 

“ In  a dug  out  canoe , poling  away  with  a cargo  of  mer- 
chandise”   141 

Going  ashore  at  Altata 168 

A scene  in  Altata 169 

Cave  with  adobe  front,  used  as  a dwelling,  near  Culiacan  176 
An  American  ranch-house  near  Culiacan  ....  177 

The  bull-fight 182 

Indian  pottery  vender 183 

On  the  canyon  trail 192 

Wilkinson 193 

uEach  animal  carried  two  great  planks”  ....  198 

“ Mucha  gracias,  sehor” 199 

Hedges  of  organ  cacti 216 

On  the  trail  217 

Guava  trees  in  a garden,  Canelas 230 

A street  in  Canelas 231 

A characteristic  hut 242 

A typical  Yaqui  Indian 243 

Pack  trains  laden  with  bars  of  silver 246 

u Adobe  huts  took  the  place  of  log  cabins”  ....  247 

Tepehuanes,  bathed  in  brilliant  December  sunshine  . 250 

A view  of  Tepehuanes 251 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


XXXV 


Page 

The  author  and  the  youngest  child  of  Mr.  Boon  Barker , 

at  Tepehuanes  station 252 

The  lad  who  could  ride  and  the  lass  who  liked  candy  . 253 

Irrigated  gardens 254 

The  valley  in  which  Monterey  lies 255 

The  old  church  of  San  Francisco , Monterey  . . . 256 

The  BishopJs  Palace , Monterey 257 

The  Cathedral , Mexico  City 258 

American  Country  Club , Mexico  City 259 

Molino  del  Rey , captured  by  American  troops  during 

Mexican  War 264 

The  Tree  of  the  Dismal  Night}  under  which  it  is  said 

Cortez  wept 265 

Cairn  surmounted  by  cross  erected  by  Cortez  in  memory 

of  wife  he  drowned 268 

A view  of  Mazatlan  harbor 269 

The  hotel  at  Altata 270 

The  “chambermaid  ” cook , and  waiter , Altata  hotel  . 271 

The  field  hospital , Mazatlan 274 

A view  of  Mazatlan 275 


BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN 
SIERRAS 


CHAPTER  I 


A FORGOTTEN  LAND 


half  past  one  on  the  afternoon  of  October  16, 


1907,  the  good  ship  San  Jose,  Captain  Hans 


Thompson,  cast  loose  from  her  wharf,  turned 
her  prow  into  the  mist  that  hovered  over  San  Fran- 
cisco Bay,  and  made  her  course  toward  the  Golden 
Gate  and  the  broad  Pacific.  I was  one  of  the  pas- 
sengers leaning  at  her  rail  to  watch  the  fog  swallow 
up  the  cliffs  at  “Land’s  End”  and  the  last  bit  of 
hazy  shore  line  fade  from  view.  Mr.  Wilmot  Randall, 
a friend  of  my  boyhood  days,  was  my  travelling  com- 
panion. We  were  southward  bound  to  that  obscure 
and  little-known  section  of  Old  Mexico  lying  beyond 
the  Sierras,  — that  extensive  area  between  the  table- 
land and  the  Pacific  Ocean,  Sonora  and  Jalisco  States, 
which  has  slumbered  through  the  centuries  undis- 
turbed, and  unmindful  of  the  great  world  of  progress 
and  activity  just  beyond  its  borders. 

We  desired  to  learn  something  of  its  commercial 
prospects,  but  were  called  southward  chiefly  by  the 
promise  of  unique  experience  and  adventure  in  a 
country  that  had  been  to  us  in  our  youth  one  of 
romance  and  mystery.  We  had  dreamed  then  of  the 
time  when  we  should  see  with  our  own  eyes  the  won- 


1 


2 BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


derful  mountains  and  gorgeous  scenery  of  this  wild 
land,  and  should  stand  amid  the  fruits  and  flowers 
of  its  tropical  jungles. 

That  section  of  Western  Mexico,  comprising  the 
State  of  Sinaloa,  Western  Durango,  and  Tepic  Terri- 
tory, which  we  were  to  visit,  may  be  termed  the 
Hinterland  of  the  Republic.  It  is  a counterpart  of  Cali- 
fornia before  the  gold  rush  of  ’49  — wild,  little  known, 
isolated,  and  uncivilized  — one  might  almost  say  a 
forgotten  land.  But  in  these  days  of  twentieth-cen- 
tury enterprise  and  awakening  no  land  like  Western 
Mexico  can  long  remain  in  reposeful  slumber.  A 
railroad  is  in  course  of  construction  through  its  very 
heart.  From  Guaymas,  in  the  northwest,  to  Gua- 
dalajara in  the  central  south,  the  Southern  Pacific 
Railroad  is  extending  its  lines.  The  engineers  have 
already  surveyed  a route,  work  is  being  pushed,  and 
in  one  or  two  years  at  the  outside,  it  will  be  com- 
pleted and  trains  will  be  thundering  through  the 
mountain  passes  and  awaking  the  jungles  with  their 
rumble. 

Colonizing  schemes  will  spring  into  being  as  they  did 
in  California,  the  great  haciendas  will  be  divided  into 
small  ranches,  and  the  country  will  be  settled  and 
civilized.  It  will  be  robbed  of  its  seclusion,  its  quaint 
old  Indian  and  Spanish  customs,  and,  perhaps,  of  its 
contentment.  It  will  be  roused  from  its  repose  to  a 
new  era  of  push  and  enterprise. 

Randall  and  I wished  to  see  it  in  its  wildest  state, 
and  to  enjoy  its  pristine  beauty  before  the  hand  of 
commercialism  had  begun  the  work  of  transformation 
and  civilization.  And  if  it  is  to  be  settled  by  Amer- 
icans, what  American  will  not  wish  to  learn  some- 


A FORGOTTEN  LAND 


3 


thing  of  its  probable  future,  and  of  the  opportunities 
it  may  offer  the  would-be  colonist  or  investor? 

Our  knowledge  of  the  existing  conditions  in  this 
Hinterland  of  Mexico  was  meagre  and  indefinite. 
The  railroads  of  the  East  have  never  found  their  way 
across  the  mighty  barrier  of  the  Sierra  Madres,  to 
invade  it.  Save  for  one  stage  line  which  reaches  its 
length,  — impassable  for  wheeled  vehicles  during  half 
the  year,  — rough  jungle  and  mountain  trails  were 
the  only  lines  of  communication  between  its  scat- 
tered settlements,  and  pack  mules  the  only  means  of 
transportation.  The  difficulties  and  discomforts  of 
travel,  together  with  tales  of  brigandage  and  out- 
lawry formerly  committed  here,  which  have  from  time 
to  time  been  whispered  to  the  outside  world,  have 
proved  sufficient  obstacles  to  turn  from  its  borders 
the  ordinary  traveller.  Therefore,  with  all  the  books 
that  have  been  published  upon  Mexico  and  Mexican 
travel,  no  first-hand  description  in  English  has  yet 
appeared  of  this  isolated  region.  It  is,  in  consequence, 
to  the  world  in  general  a practically  unknown  country. 
Its  chief  characteristics  may  be  summed  up  briefly. 

Dense  jungles  cover  the  lower  levels  in  the  South, 
where  water  is  plentiful,  while  great  areas  of  the  less 
favored  North  are  semi-arid.  In  the  higher  altitudes, 
above  the  foothills,  vast  primordial  forests  of  live  oak 
and  pine  stretch  away  into  dark  distances  over  the 
serrated  peaks  of  the  Sierra  Madres,  with  their  mighty 
canyons  and  heights  of  magnificent  grandeur.  Ten 
turbulent  rivers  flow  down  across  the  State  of  Sinaloa 
in  their  course  from  the  Cordilleras  to  the  sea,  and 
three  others  traverse  the  Territory  of  Tepic.  With 
the  exception  of  Mazatlan,  the  metropolis  of  Pacific 


4 


BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


Mexico,  and  the  capital  cities  of  Culiacan  and  Tepic, 
the  population  is  sparse  and  scattered.  There  are  a 
few  small  towns  as  distributing  points  for  merchandise, 
and  here  and  there  small  collections  of  Indian  huts, 
where  the  natives  live  as  their  forefathers  lived  for 
untold  generations  before  them,  with  little  change 
in  their  habits  or  customs  since  the  days  when  the 
great  Montezuma  ruled  over  his  so-called  Aztec 
Empire.  But  at  the  most,  it  is  a thinly  populated 
wilderness. 

The  first  port  of  call  for  the  Pacific  mail  steamers 
is  Mazatlan,  six  days  out  from  San  Francisco,  and  to 
this  port  Randall  and  I had  booked  our  passage. 
Here  we  had  planned  to  purchase  saddle  and  pack 
mules,  employ  guides,  and  thence  penetrate  the  in- 
terior country  north  and  south. 

The  air  was  raw  and  cold,  the  deck  and  rigging 
dripped  moisture,  and  with  the  final  disappearance 
of  land,  outside  the  Golden  Gate,  we  turned  shivering 
from  the  steamer  rail  to  seek  the  shelter  of  the  smok- 
ing-room. As  we  entered  Randall  remarked,  with 
optimistic  and  comforting  assurance, 

“Another  week  and  we'll  be  bathing  in  the  sun- 
shine of  tropical  Mexico,”  a remark  which  I remem- 
bered later. 

We  had  a cosmopolitan  crowd  in  the  cabin.  There 
were  men  from  the  Philippine  Islands,  China,  Aus- 
tralia, and  New  Zealand,  Panama  Canal  officials,  the 
German  Consul  from  Tepic,  an  artist  and  his  wife, 
lately  from  abroad,  miners  from  Alaskan  gold  fields, 
coffee  growers  from  Central  America,  young  Ameri- 
cans in  the  employ  of  Central  American  republics, 
two  Chinese  merchants,  a woman  lawyer,  and  by  no 


A FORGOTTEN  LAND 


5 


means  the  least  among  this  world-wide  aggregation, 
a gentleman  from  Nome  who  knew  how  to  play  poker. 
This  game,  the  gentleman  from  Nome  said,  was  his 
favorite  amusement.  Some  of  the  young  men  who 
had  an  overplus  of  funds,  and  thought  they  could 
play  poker  too,  sat  with  him  in  friendly  contest  for  a 
while.  He  taught  them  wisdom,  which  they  assimi- 
lated sadly.  As  each  came  from  the  game  he  talked 
about  retrenching  expenses,  and  I gathered  that  one 
lesson  they  had  absorbed  from  the  gentleman  from 
Nome  was  how  to  economize.  He  was  a very  kind- 
hearted  man,  and  always  sympathized  deeply  with 
the  unfortunate  ones  who  had  been  divorced  from 
the  contents  of  their  wallets  during  the  course  of 
instruction. 

For  two  days  dull,  depressing  weather  remained 
with  us.  Clouds  obscured  the  sun,  fog  hung  over  the 
sea,  and  the  atmosphere  was  dank  and  dispiriting; 
but  when  we  went  on  deck  on  the  morning  of  the  third 
day  a wonderful  transformation  had  taken  place. 
The  cheerless,  sodden  world  of  the  night  had  in  some 
mysterious  manner  turned  into  one  of  transcendent 
beauty.  The  calm  blue  sea  shimmered  in  the  sunlight, 
the  air  was  mellow  and  balmy,  not  a cloud  marred  the 
soft-tinted  turquoise  sky,  and  sleepy  and  warm  the 
coast  of  Lower  California  lay  against  the  eastern 
horizon.  It  was  as  if  some  fairy  had  touched  the  old 
earth  with  her  magic  wand,  and  lo!  a new  world  had 
sprung  into  being  in  a night.  The  officers  appeared 
at  breakfast  in  natty  white  duck  uniforms,  instead 
of  the  regulation  blue,  and  the  young  men  passengers, 
taking  the  cue,  adopted  a like  dress. 

We  turned  in  at  Magdalena  Bay  — not  into  the  bay, 


6 BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


but  to  the  entrance  — where  we  blew  blasts  of  the 
whistle  as  a signal  to  the  men-of-war  lying  inside  to 
come  out  and  get  the  mail  we  had  for  them.  Pres- 
ently the  U.  S.  S.  Perry  appeared,  swung  about  and 
launched  a boat,  with  six  bluejackets  at  the  oars, 
and  a nice  new  ensign  all  dressed  in  immaculate  white, 
sitting  in  the  stern,  arms  folded  and  looking  as  though 
he  carried  the  dignity  of  the  United  States  Navy 
upon  his  shoulders.  The  boat  pulled  alongside  the 
San  Jose,  and  the  new  ensign,  still  maintaining  his 
dignity,  reached  for  the  ladder,  missed  it,  and  the 
immaculate  uniform  disappeared  into  the  blue  depths, 
leaving  a white  cap,  without  a wearer,  bobbing  up 
and  down  upon  the  waves.  In  a few  seconds  the 
ensign  rose,  holding  high  over  his  head,  in  one  hand, 
some  papers  he  was  to  deliver,  and  swimming  grace- 
fully and  dexterously  with  the  other,  until  he  was 
happily  rescued  by  his  men  before  the  sharks  caught 
him.  When  he  reached  our  deck,  every  bit  of  his 
dignity  had  been  washed  away,  and  he  seemed  filled 
with  mortification  and  sea  water. 

On  the  twenty-first  of  October  we  made  the  turn 
around  San  Jose  del  Cabo  and  Cape  St.  Lucas,  pointed 
eastward  across  the  Gulf  of  Lower  California,  and  early 
the  next  morning  came  to  our  anchorage  off  Mazatlan. 
Randall  and  I had  everything  packed,  ready  to  go 
ashore  as  soon  as  the  port  doctor  gave  us  a clean  bill 
of  health. 

Three  hours  of  impatient  waiting  elapsed  before  the 
government  officials  appeared.  At  length  they  came 
in  three  boats  — the  doctor  and  two  customs  officers. 
And  here  we  were  doomed  to  disappointment  and 
vexation.  We  were  adjudged  undesirable  citizens, 


A FORGOTTEN  LAND 


7 


and  told  that  we  must  not  leave  the  ship  unless  we 
were  willing  to  have  the  undesirable  qualities  fumi- 
gated out  of  us  and  our  baggage,  and  then  submit 
to  four  days  in  limbo.  This  was  hard  indeed!  We 
were  bubonic  plague  suspects,  and  they  did  not  want 
us.  The  yellow  flag  was  hoisted  at  our  masthead, 
and  all  boats  warned  away. 

Randall  and  I were  in  a quandary.  Fumigation 
would  doubtless  injure,  if  nor  ruin,  my  photographic 
films,  and  the  quarantine  pen  for  ourselves  was  hor- 
rible to  contemplate  — four  days  with  a medley  of 
Chinese,  Koreans,  and  what  not!  It  was  a question 
with  us  whether  it  would  be  better  to  face  fumigation 
and  the  pest-house  here,  or  go  on  to  San  Bias,  the  next 
port  of  call  to  the  south,  and  take  the  chance  of  pass- 
ing quarantine  there  without  detention.  The  chief 
consideration  against  going  to  San  Bias  was  a rumor 
that  horses  and  mules  were  scarce  at  that  port,  and 
we  might  not  be  able  to  get  animals  to  carry  us  upon 
our  inland  journey.  We  were  discussing  this  when 
a good  friend  came  to  our  rescue,  and  decided  it  for  us. 

One  of  our  fellow  passengers,  Mr.  Edwin  Emerson, 
a ranchman  of  Mountain  View,  California,  was  bound 
for  San  Bias,  en  route  to  the  Hacienda  San  Nicolas, 
a hacienda  two  days’  journey  inland,  in  which  he  was 
interested.  Besides  himself,  his  party  consisted  of 
Lorenzo  L.  Gates,  manager  of  the  hacienda,  and  Charles 
Bigelow,  scientific  farmer.  Mr.  Emerson  suggested 
that  we  join  them.  He  offered  to  supply  us  with 
saddle  horses  and  pack  mules,  and  invited  us  to  accept 
the  hospitality  of  the  Hacienda  San  Nicolas,  and  make 
it  our  base  of  operations  while  in  Tepic  Territory. 

This  helped  us  out  of  our  disagreeable  situation, 


8 BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


and  at  the  same  time  offered  unusual  opportunities 
to  see  the  country  under  the  guidance  of  Gates,  who 
had  lived  for  several  years  in  Mexico,  and  was  familiar 
with  its  language  and  customs.  It  is  needless  to  say 
that  with  due  thankfulness  and  promptitude  we 
accepted  Mr.  Emerson’s  invitation,  paid  our  passage 
to  San  Bias,  and  defied  the  port  doctor  and  customs 
officers  to  do  their  worst. 

We  lay  listlessly  at  anchor  all  day,  during  which 
time  the  port  authorities  fumigated  the  freight  in  the 
hold,  and  the  baggage  of  the  one  cabin  passenger  and 
the  steerage  passengers  who  were  going  ashore. 

Mazatlan  newspapers  were  brought  aboard  and 
Randall  translated  for  me.  One  of  them  contained 
an  editorial  upon  the  granting  of  Magdalena  Bay  to 
the  United  States  Navy  as  a practice  ground.  “The 
robbers  have  come,”  the  editorial  read.  “This  is 
their  entering  wedge.  Mexico  is  at  their  mercy.  Who 
can  doubt  that  they  have  designs  upon  our  beloved 
country?  The  Government  in  its  weakness  has 
granted  this  concession  of  Magdalena  Bay,  and  per- 
mitted these  brigands  to  gain  a foothold  upon  our 
soil.  The  history  of  Texas  and  California  will  be 
repeated.  The  object  of  these  Northern  robbers  is 
plain.  It  is  to  grab  our  country  and  absorb  it.” 

Randall  could  read  Spanish  very  well,  and  I was 
comforted  with  the  belief  that  he  could  speak  it  also, 
and  that  he  would  be  our  mouthpiece  in  dealing  with 
the  natives.  He  proudly  informed  me  that  he  had 
acquired  a good  knowledge  of  the  language  through 
text-books  and  a phonograph,  without  the  aid  of  an 
instructor.  The  phonograph  had  taught  him  the 
Castilian  pronunciation,  of  which  he  was  very  proud. 


Mazatlan  harbor 


Photograph  by  Charles  N.  Remington 


A FORGOTTEN  LAND 


9 


and  upon  which  he  laid  special  stress.  He  assured  me 
that  he  could  “fire  it  in  long,  well-rounded  sentences 
at  will  and  with  precision.”  These  were  his  own 
words.  He  had  even  volunteered  to  teach  me.  For 
an  hour  or  so  I studied  hard,  and  succeeded  in  absorb- 
ing one  word  — “si,”  which  means  “yes.”  There  I 
discontinued  my  efforts.  “What  is  the  use?”  I asked 
Randall.  “You  can  do  all  the  necessary  talking  for 
both  of  us.” 

Now,  at  Mazatlan,  he  had  an  opportunity  for  the 
first  time  to  experiment  with  his  linguistic  acquire- 
ments. Venders  in  their  dugout  canoes  crowded 
about  offering  cigars,  sugar-cane,  tortoise-shell,  and 
fruits  of  various  kinds  for  sale.  Randall  went  boldly 
to  the  rail,  and  sprung  his  Castilian  Spanish,  quite 
without  warning,  upon  one  of  them.  The  fellow 
looked  mystified  for  a moment,  and  then  delivered  a 
lot  of  good  Mexican  Spanish  in  return.  It  was 
Randall’s  turn  now  to  be  mystified,  and  shocked.  He 
turned  to  me,  an  inscrutable  look  on  his  face,  and 
gasped, 

“If  that ’s  Spanish,  I can’t  understand  one  word 
of  it!” 

Mazatlan  is  a picturesque  place.  A lighthouse 
stands  high  upon  the  small  mount,  Cerro  del  Creston, 
at  the  north  entrance  of  the  shallow  bay,  — the 
highest  lighthouse  in  the  world,  save  Gibraltar,  — 
and  the  south  entrance  is  guarded  by  rugged  rocks. 
In  the  distance  lies  the  town,  with  its  cathedral  spires 
standing  prominently  against  the  sky;  below,  cocoa- 
nut  palms  and  thatched  roofs;  and  in  the  blue  distance 
the  towering  peaks  of  the  Cordilleras  complete  the 
scene.  A cooling  breeze  modified  the  rigors  of  the 


10  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


midday  tropical  heat,  and  the  night  was  one  of  splen- 
dor, with  a gorgeous  sunset  followed  by  a full  and 
brilliant  moon. 

On  our  second  morning  at  Mazatlan,  the  port 
officers  came  aboard  again  and  very  inconsiderately 
roused  every  one  out  of  his  bed  at  half  past  six,  and 
lined  us  up  on  deck  — cabin  passengers,  steerage 
passengers,  and  crew  — while  the  doctor  reexamined 
us  for  bubonic  plague.  He  found  us  still  healthy  and 
vigorous,  but  did  not  remove  the  quarantine  restric- 
tions. He  could  not  understand  how  we  had  escaped 
the  raging  scourge  of  plague  that  every  one  here 
believed  existed  in  San  Francisco. 

We  were  told  that  once,  several  years  before,  the 
plague  had  appeared  in  Mazatlan,  and  before  it  was 
subdued  the  town  was  all  but  depopulated.  Hence 
their  fear  and  apparent  caution  now.  Isay  "apparent 
caution,”  for  later  in  the  day  cargadores  came  aboard, 
discharged  the  cargo  for  the  port  into  lighters,  mingled 
with  the  passengers,  and  passed  back  and  forth, 
between  the  ship  and  the  city,  at  will;  and  yet  passen- 
gers were  not  permitted  this  privilege.  They  locked 
one  door  securely,  and  left  the  other  wide  open. 

Three  days  in  Mazatlan,  and  we  were  off,  and  the 
following  morning  anchored  in  front  of  San  Bias, 
where  we  were  actually  to  disembark.  Right  before 
us  lay  the  thatched  roofs,  the  palms,  the  fruits,  the 
flowers,  and  the  forests  of  tropical  America,  the  dream- 
land of  our  youth,  with  its  queer  people  and  queer 
customs,  and  we  were  to  see  it  all  with  our  own  eyes 
and  be  a part  of  it,  too,  for  a while. 


CHAPTER  II 


IN  OLD  SAN  BLAS 

THERE  was  little  formality  to  be  gone  through 
at  San  Bias.  The  port  doctor  came  aboard, 
looked  at  the  whites  of  our  eyes,  and  passed 
us  with  the  wave  of  a hand.  We  were  more  than  ten 
days  out  of  San  Francisco  — the  period  of  incubation 
for  bubonic  plague  — and  they  considered  us  harmless 
and  inoffensive  now.  We  were  no  longer  suspected  of 
harboring  dark  designs  upon  Mexico,  and  the  self- 
respect  that  we  lost  at  Mazatlan  was  regained  at  San 
Bias. 

Emerson  buckled  his  revolver  on,  and  told  us  we 
had  better  follow  his  example  before  going  ashore, 
as  it  was  quite  fashionable  to  wear  them  here.  We 
did  so,  but  I felt  very  much  as  a young  man  does  when 
he  dons  his  first  evening  clothes  and  appears  in  public 
in  them;  and  though  I pushed  my  big  Colt  back  under 
my  coat,  to  hide  it  as  much  as  possible  from  the  gaze 
of  the  populace,  it  would  protrude  in  spite  of  me,  and 
seemed  like  a ton’s  weight  upon  my  belt.  However, 
when  the  boat  came  that  was  to  take  us  ashore,  and 
I saw  that  at  least  one  of  the  boatmen  wore  a beltful 
of  cartridges,  with  a revolver  in  a leather  holster 
dangling  from  it,  I felt  better  about  it. 

The  boatmen  were  mozos  (servants)  from  the 
Hacienda  San  Nicolas,  who  had  been  despatched  from 

li 


12  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


the  interior  ranch  with  horses  and  mules  to  meet 
Emerson  and  his  party. 

On  the  edge  of  the  low,  flat  ground,  which  stretches 
from  the  beach  to  the  foothills  of  the  Cordilleras, 
punctuated  by  one  abrupt  bluff  a mile  from  the  sea, 
the  town  lies,  half  hidden  by  an  exuberant  growth  of 
tropical  foliage  and  stately  cocoanut  palms.  Its  main 
street,  running  up  from  the  sea,  is  lined  with  sub- 
stantial, mortar-covered,  whitewashed  stone  buildings 
of  Spanish  architecture,  flanked  on  either  side  by 
crooked,  narrow  streets,  along  which  are  massed 
fiimsily  constructed  huts,  thatched  with  palm  leaves 
and  sea  grass.  The  effect  of  the  whole  is  somewhat 
Oriental,  as  one  approaches  the  sandy  beach,  though 
a more  intimate  view  robs  it  of  its  Oriental  aspect, 
and  makes  it  typically  Mexican.  This  Oriental  color- 
ing led  Randall  to  remark, 

"Makes  me  think  of  Cairo  or  some  other  Bible  town 
that  I Ve  read  of.”  Randall  is  not  strong  on  Biblical 
history. 

Barelegged,  bareheaded  cargadores  and  sandalled 
peons,  wearing  skin-tight  trousers  and  immense  high- 
crowned,  broad-brimmed  sombreros  of  straw  or  felt, 
— a brown-skinned,  black-haired  medley,  — crowded 
around  us  in  eager  curiosity  as  we  stepped  ashore. 
Emerson’s  two  mozos,  with  the  help  of  half  a dozen 
of  the  cargadores,  carried  our  baggage  to  the  custom 
house,  where  a polite  officer,  who  spoke  good  English, 
passed  it  with  a very  cursory  examination;  and  the 
first  ordeal  — one  that  every  one  dreads  upon  entering 
a strange  country  — was  over. 

But  Emerson  had  troubles  of  his  own  ahead,  in  the 
shape  of  two  pigs  that  he  was  taking  to  his  hacienda. 


SXJRROUNDING- 

COUNTRY 


T : I 

of  ME 

X I C O' 

— 

L— - 

"T 

1 

1 

1 

Li 

fel 

1 1 f 
I ■ > 


* 


V* 


IN  OLD  SAN  BLAS 


13 


He  suggested  to  the  officer  that  the  pigs  should  be 
passed  free  of  duty,  as  they  would  be  of  decided  benefit 
to  the  country,  in  improving  the  stock. 

“Oh,  yes,  certainly  we  passa  th’  pig,”  said  the 
polite  official.  “We  carra  much  for  th’  improve  of 
stock  of  Mexico,  but  Senor  Emerson  will  be  pleased 
to  signa  some  paper  first.” 

Emerson,  not  to  be  outdone  in  politeness  by  the 
official,  bowed  low  and  said  he  would,  and  it  was  right 
there  his  troubles  began.  All  the  afternoon  he  was 
kept  busy  signing  documents.  Now  and  again  we 
met  him,  coat  on  arm,  one  hand  grasping  a hand- 
kerchief, with  which  he  desperately  mopped  perspira- 
tion from  his  face,  the  other  hand  filled  with  papers, 
rushing  up  and  down  the  scorching  street  on  the 
trail  of  an  official.  He  wrote  his  name  on  twenty- 
seven  different  documents  for  twenty-seven  different 
officials  that  afternoon,  and  each  time  had  to  purchase 
and  affix  an  internal  revenue  stamp.  I never  did 
learn  how  much  he  paid  for  the  stamps,  but  the  pigs 
were  admitted  duty  free. 

When  I refer  to  the  afternoon,  I mean  after  two 
o’clock.  At  eleven  in  the  forenoon  all  business  stops, 
all  shops  close,  the  people  go  to  their  siesta,  and  the 
streets  are  deserted. 

Our  formalities  at  the  custom  house  were  com- 
pleted by  ten  o’clock,  and  we  went  at  once  to  the 
Hotel  Americano,  where  we  were  received  with  much 
formality,  and  shown  to  our  rooms  — two  rooms  for 
the  five  of  us.  They  were  furnished  with  a wash- 
stand,  a couple  of  chairs  in  each,  and  with  beds  about 
the  size  of  ordinary  cots.  Each  bed  was  simply  a 
single  piece  of  canvas  stretched  over  a frame,  with  a 


14  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


sheet  over  that,  and  a straw  or  hay  pillow.  A canopy 
of  cheese-cloth,  about  four  feet  high,  enclosed  each 
as  a protection  against  sand  flies  and  mosquitoes. 
The  floor  was  bare. 

Our  rooms  were  on  the  second  or  top  floor  of  the 
house.  On  one  side,  windows  looked  upon  the  main 
street,  while  our  doors  opened  upon  a balcony  over- 
looking the  hotel  patio,  or  courtyard,  in  which  grew 
cocoanut  palms,  banana  plants,  lemon  trees  with  ripe 
fruit  that  we  could  reach  from  the  balcony,  and  many 
brilliant  tropical  flowers  and  plants.  There  were  also 
sand  flies  and  fleas  galore,  and  when  we  drew  our 
chairs  to  the  balcony  to  smoke  a while  and  cool  off, 
while  the  mozos  brought  up  our  baggage,  we  were 
startled  by  a lizard  about  eighteen  inches  long,  a row 
of  horns  down  the  back  of  his  head,  and  glaring  eyes, 
which  looked  like  “the  devil  himself,”  as  Emerson 
said,  though  we  were  told  it  was  only  an  aquila,  and 
harmless.  I did  not  care  to  associate  with  him,  how- 
ever, and  let  him  see  it,  and  he  went  away.  His 
personal  appearance  was  against  him. 

At  dinner,  which  was  eaten  under  our  balcony,  and 
out  of  doors,  where  we  could  enjoy  the  fragrance  of 
the  flowers  and  foliage  of  the  patio,  we  had  the  pleasure 
of  making  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  William  Ramos,  a 
banana  grower,  who  lived  at  the  hotel,  and  had  the 
distinction  of  being  the  only  American  resident  of 
San  Bias.  Ramos  was  delighted  to  see  us,  because 
we  were  Americans,  and  he  was  more  than  a little 
lonesome. 

The  dinner  began  with  soup,  followed  by  an  array 
of  courses,  mostly  compounds  of  things  I did  not 
recognize,  and  nearly  all  very  hot  with  chilli-peppers, 


Cocoanut  palms 


A corner  of  the  market-place,  San  Bias 


IN  OLD  SAN  BLAS 


15 


but  on  the  whole  palatable.  Frijoles  (beans)  were 
served  just  before  the  dulce.  That  is  a warning  that 
you  have  had  all  you  are  going  to  get,  and  to  satisfy 
yourself  upon  them,  if  you  have  not  had  enough  of 
the  other  things.  They  were  well  cooked  and  good. 
The  bread  was  in  the  form  of  rolls,  sweetened,  and  of 
poor  quality  — “pan  bianco ” they  call  it.  It  was  the 
characteristic  bread,  however,  of  Mexico  — when 
bread  is  to  be  had  at  all.  The  coffee  was  of  good 
quality,  but,  like  all  Mexican  coffee,  muddy  and  very 
strong.  It  is  burned  black  in  roasting,  ground  to  a 
powder,  boiled,  and  served  with  the  grounds.  One  is 
supposed  to  drink  the  grounds. 

After  dinner  Ramos  took  us  about  the  town.  It 
has,  he  informed  us,  about  two  thousand  inhabitants. 
The  buildings  on  the  main  street,  as  has  been  hinted, 
are  mostly  of  substantial  Spanish  architecture,  while 
the  others  are  mere  shacks  of  poles  and  mud,  with 
thatched  roofs  and  without  floors.  The  main  street 
is  paved  with  cobblestones,  through  which  grass  grows, 
and  from  the  sea  front  to  the  custom  house  is  a minia- 
ture railroad,  on  which  a push-car  is  operated,  to 
carry  freight  from  the  landing  to  the  warehouses. 

Men  and  women  lounged  in  the  little  shops,  drinking 
mescal  and  tequila,  their  native  whiskey.  The  latter 
is  simply  a better  quality  of  the  former.  The  best 
shops  are  kept  by  Chinamen,  and  everything  is  sold 
in  them,  from  dry-goods  to  fruit.  We  stopped  at 
one  and  drank  some  cocoanut  milk,  and  then  ate  the 
soft  meat  from  the  green  fruit  with  a spoon.  They 
do  not  eat  the  cocoanut  here  after  it  has  ripened.  We 
also  tested  the  oranges,  green-skinned  but  ripe  and 
sweet,  all  seedlings  grown  without  cultivation  and 


16  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


therefore  not  to  be  compared  in  quality  with  the 
oranges  of  California;  and  bananas,  from  a delicious 
small  banana,  not  larger  than  your  thumb,  to  the 
immense  platen  grande,  which  is  cooked  as  a vegetable. 
The  bananas  are  no  better  than  those  to  be  had  at 
any  New  York  fruit  stand,  for  they  are  ripened  in 
the  same  way  — after  they  are  cut. 

In  the  rear  of  the  municipal  building  on  the  north 
side  of  the  plaza  is  the  theatre,  a unique  feature  of 
the  town.  It  is  a stage  facing  upon  an  open  court, 
or  patio,  and  Ramos  told  us  that  people  attending 
performances  bring  their  own  chairs  with  them,  or 
squat  upon  the  ground.  The  plaza  opposite  is  a 
beautiful  little  square  filled  with  tropical  plants  and 
with  a bandstand  in  the  centre.  Every  town  in  Mexico 
has  its  plaza  and  bandstand.  But  what  interested  us 
most  was  the  market-place,  where  pottery,  meat, 
vegetables,  leather  goods,  dry-goods  — nearly  every- 
thing a Mexican  needs  for  his  comfort  — were  dis- 
played for  sale.  The  vegetables  were  divided  into 
little  piles  representing  one,  two,  or  three  centavos ’* 
worth,  and  very  often  fruits  or  vegetables  were  cut  to 
make  the  exact  quantity  desired. 

Big  sombreros  of  straw  or  felt,  often  trimmed  elab- 
orately with  gilt  and  ornaments,  were  the  chief  charac- 
teristic of  the  men’s  dress.  The  remainder  of  the 
costume  was  in  many  instances  not  enough  to  remark 
about.  The  women  were  slovenly  and  ugly.  I feel 
qualified  to  speak  upon  this  matter,  for  Randall  and  I, 
both  of  a romantic  turn  of  mind,  looked  into  every 
face  for  one  specimen  of  the  “enchanting,  dark-eyed 

*A  centavo  is  a Mexican  cent,  equal  to  one-half  cent  United  States 
currency. 


IN  OLD  SAN  BLAS 


17 


senoritas,”  whose  beauty  is  extolled  by  nearly  every 
writer  on  Mexico,  but  failed  in  the  quest.  The  eyes 
were  dark  enough,  but  so  was  the  skin;  — almost  as 
dark  as  that  of  our  average  Southern  negro,  and  the 
features  were  not  good  to  look  upon. 

It  is  not  entirely  correct  to  say  that  the  market- 
place is  the  most  interesting  feature  of  the  town. 
The  policemen  hold  that  honor.  The  first  specimen 
I saw  was  leaning  against  a post  in  a nice,  shady 
corner,  puffing  contentedly  at  a cigarette,  and  appar- 
ently quite  oblivious  of  and  superior  to  his  surround- 
ings. He  wore  a dirty  white  cotton  tunic,  unbuttoned, 
dirty  cotton  trousers,  a white  peaked  cap,  and  san- 
dals. A big  revolver,  with  its  muzzle  sticking  out 
behind  and  below  his  tunic,  and  a club  hanging 
listlessly  by  a string  from  his  wrist,  were  his  weapons 
of  offence  and  defence.  Listless,  ambitionless,  staring 
vacantly  into  space,  with  apparently  no  purpose  in 
life  but  to  hold  up  that  post  and  pass  away  the  time, 
he  was  the  best  representative  of  human  vacuity  of 
mind  and  official  indolence  I ever  saw.  It  appeared 
to  me  as  though  it  would  require  a dynamite  car- 
tridge to  blow  a breath  of  activity  into  him.  But  I 
was  mistaken  in  the  gentleman.  I approached  him. 

“Will  senor  permit  me  to  take  his  portrait?”  I 
asked,  forgetting  that  English  was  a foreign  tongue 
to  him. 

He  did  not  move,  but  displayed  some  interest. 

“Just  a snapshot,”  I said  briskly.  “I’ll  have  it 
published,  and  senor  will  be  immortalized.” 

He  developed  more  interest,  but  I saw  he  did  not 
appreciate  his  opportunity  to  be  immortalized. 

“I  want  to  get  your  picture,”  I repeated. 


18  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


He  straightened  up  and  said  a few  sentences  in 
Spanish.  He  was  becoming  quite  animated.  Then 
it  dawned  upon  me  that  he  did  not  understand  English 
and  I looked  around  for  Ramos  to  interpret  for  me, 
but  he  and  the  others  had  gone  on.  So  I tried  again. 
The  position  was  becoming  rather  awkward,  and  I 
put  more  stress  and  enthusiasm  into  my  voice,  in  a 
vain  hope  that  he  might  grasp  my  meaning. 

“Just  your  picture  — I just  want  to  get  your  pic- 
ture.” 

The  policeman,  now  standing  quite  independent 
of  the  support  of  the  post,  pointed  down  the  street 
in  the  direction  the  others  had  gone,  and  reeled  off 
a whole  string  of  Spanish  at  me.  I thought  he  under- 
stood at  last,  and  was  inquiring  whether  I wished  him 
to  step  out  into  the  sunshine  in  the  street.  Bringing 
my  entire  Spanish  vocabulary  to  my  assistance,  I said, 
very  sweetly, 

“Si,  senor.” 

The  result  was  magical.  The  policeman  clutched 
his  club  firmly,  and  started  up  the  street  at  a good 
pace  after  Ramos,  Randall,  and  the  others.  He 
thought  they  were  malefactors,  and  I was  telling  him 
of  some  dark  and  bloody  deed  that  they  had  com- 
mitted. He  was  going  to  run  them  in.  In  despera- 
tion I headed  him  off  and  shouted: 

“No!  No!  senor,  photograph,”  at  the  same  time 
unfolding  my  camera.  A crowd  was  gathering  and 
the  situation  was  becoming  strenuous  for  me. 

The  officer  halted  and  smiled.  He  at  last  compre- 
hended. “No”  was  very  good  Spanish,  so  was 
“senor,”  and  “photograph”  sounded  very  like  the 
Spanish  word  for  the  same  thing,  and  all  this,  in  con- 


" The  officer  halted  and  smiled” 


Custom  House,  San  Bias 


IN  OLD  SAN  BLAS 


19 


nection  with  the  unfolded  camera,  made  my  meaning 
clear.  The  policeman  stood  still  where  I placed  him, 
assumed  the  most  soldierly  pose  of  which  he  was 
capable,  and  I made  my  snapshot.  I thanked  him 
cordially,  we  doffed  our  hats  to  each  other  and  shook 
hands,  and  then  he  went  back  to  lean  against  his  post 
in  the  shade,  quite  a hero  in  the  eyes  of  the  admiring 
crowd,  which  gathered  around  him  to  talk  over  the 
occurrence  as  I hurried  on  to  find  my  friends. 

In  this  little  town  there  are  seven  or  eight  policemen. 
At  night  one  sees  them  at  the  corners,  their  lanterns, 
which  they  always  have  with  them  after  sunset,  stand- 
ing out  in  the  middle  of  the  narrow  streets.  There 
are  no  wagons  or  carriages  in  San  Bias,  and  the 
horsemen  and  pack  mules  turn  out  for  them.  At 
nine  o’clock  in  the  evening,  and  every  hour  thereafter 
until  daylight,  one  hears  their  whistles.  As  the  clock 
strikes  the  hour,  the  sharp,  shrill  tones  of  one  sounds 
out  upon  the  night,  to  be  followed  by  another  and 
another,  like  an  oft-repeated  echo,  in  the  distant  cor- 
ners of  the  town,  until  all  have  answered.  A police- 
man’s wages  here  are  thirty-two  centavos  a day 
(sixteen  cents),  and  out  of  this  he  must  live  and  pro- 
vide for  his  family,  if  he  has  one.  This,  of  course, 
applies  only  to  San  Bias.  Each  individual  town  has 
its  own  separate  police  system,  with  its  distinctive 
regulations  as  to  uniform,  wages,  and  so  on. 

Between  the  soldiers  and  the  police  a pretty  close 
watch  is  kept  upon  the  movements  of  travellers  every- 
where in  the  Republic.  When  a stranger  secures 
accommodation  at  a hotel  where  no  regular  register 
of  the  guests  is  kept,  he  is  requested  to  write  his 
name,  and  where  he  last  came  from,  upon  a slip  of 


20  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


paper.  This  slip  is  turned  over  to  the  police,  and 
intercommunication  between  the  police  of  various 
towns,  and  the  soldiers,  keeps  the  visitor  well  under 
the  eye  of  the  authorities. 

The  whole  town  of  San  Bias  turned  out  that  night 
to  do  honor  to  two  senoritas  of  uncertain  reputation, 
who  came  over  on  the  steamer  from  Mazatlan.  They 
were  not  quite  so  dark  in  complexion,  and  were  so 
much  better  looking  than  the  damsels  of  the  town, 
that  the  men  — and  the  women,  too.  for  that  matter 
— were  quite  infatuated  by  them  — excepting  the  two 
maiden  ladies  who  ran  our  hotel.  These  maiden 
ladies  declined  to  extend  the  hospitality  of  their  house 
to  the  attractive  senoritas,  and  the  said  attractive 
ones  were  forced  to  find  shelter  in  an  inferior  hotel 
at  the  market-place,  where  the  susceptible  proprietor 
received  them  literally  with  open  arms.  Later  in  the 
evening,  we  applauded  the  maiden  ladies  for  their 
good  judgment  and  thoughtfulness  for  the  comfort  of 
their  guests,  for  the  populace  and  the  town  band 
massed  in  the  market-place  before  the  other  hotel. 
During  the  night,  whenever  the  fleas  and  sand  flies 
roused  us  to  consciousness,  we  heard  the  noise  over 
there.  On  these  occasions  we  would  turn  over  and 
go  to  sleep  again,  giving  thanks  that  the  racket  was 
not  being  made  under  our  windows. 

Later  I heard  the  story  of  what  took  place.  Two 
or  three  of  the  wealthiest  natives,  including  civil 
officials  of  the  town,  employed  the  band  to  play, 
purchased  a quantity  of  liquid  refreshments,  and 
invited  their  friends  to  a reception  in  honor  of  the 
two  charmers.  Well  along  in  the  night,  after  every- 
body had  withdrawn  except  two  of  the  three  who  had 


IN  OLD  SAN  BLAS 


21 


arranged  the  affair,  one  of  these  gentlemen  gave  the 
senoritas  a substantial  honorarium  to  present  some 
special  Spanish  dances  before  them.  The  other  sub- 
scriber returned  and  applied  at  the  door  for  admission 
just  as  the  dancing  was  at  its  height.  Those  within 
had  no  time  or  inclination  to  open  the  door,  and  the 
one  without  inconsiderately  broke  it  down,  frighten- 
ing the  musicians  and  the  dancers  to  such  an  extent 
that  one  of  the  gentlemen  within  was  moved  to  pro- 
test, and  as  an  expression  of  the  annoyance  he  felt 
at  the  rude  entrance,  drew  his  gun  and  proceeded  to 
shoot  up  the  intruder.  The  newcomer  drew  his  gun 
too,  and  used  it,  but  they  were  all  so  intoxicated,  or 
such  poor  marksmen,  that  no  one  was  seriously  injured 
by  the  fusillade.  Finally  my  friend,  the  policeman, 
with  two  or  three  other  officers,  appeared  and  put 
a stop  to  the  disturbance. 

San  Bias,  which  stands  at  the  mouth  of  the  Santiago 
Rio,  was  founded  by  the  Spaniards  in  the  middle  or 
latter  part  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The  original 
town  was  built  upon  a hill,  which  rises  abruptly  and 
prominently  out  of  the  low  surrounding  country.  In 
the  rear,  this  hill  has  steep  slopes,  but  in  front,  toward 
the  ocean,  it  presents  walls  of  perpendicular  rock, 
rising  sheer  from  the  plain  below,  as  though  reared 
by  some  gigantic  hand  to  support  the  once  formidable 
fortress  that  stood  upon  its  summit.  Glowering  guns 
commanded  the  harbor  at  the  entrance  to  the  Santiago 
River,  where  the  merchantmen  that  carried  on  the 
growing  trade  with  the  Orient  and  the  rich  islands  of 
the  Southern  sea  took  refuge,  and  where,  in  extensive 
shipyards,  men-of-war  were  fashioned  to  guard  Spain’s 
possessions  in  the  Pacific. 


22  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


San  Bias  was  then  the  gateway  to  the  Pacific,  as 
Vera  Cruz  was  the  gateway  to  the  Atlantic,  and 
Spanish  enterprise  — for  that  was  in  the  day  of  Spain’s 
glory  and  progress  — built  a great  highway  from  port 
to  port,  linking  the  two  gateways  and  laying  the 
foundation  for  a lucrative  trade  between  the  Occident 
and  the  Orient.  It  was  over  this  road  the  artillery 
and  military  supplies  for  the  fort  were  drawn,  and 
over  it  thronged  long  mule  trains  heavily  laden  with 
Oriental  plunder. 

But  time  works  wondrous  changes.  Spain  has 
fallen  from  her  glory  and  lost  her  place  among  nations; 
the  sea,  which  once  broke  against  the  face  of  the  cliff, 
has  receded  and  left  the  high  bluff  a full  mile  inland; 
sand  bars  block  the  entrance  to  the  once  active  harbor; 
the  shipyards  have  disappeared,  and  are  forgotten;  the 
powerful  fort,  the  great  arsenal,  and  the  once  beau- 
tiful town  lie  in  ruins,  half  hidden  by  tropical  jungle. 
Even  authentic  records  of  the  establishment  of 
the  town  and  building  of  the  military  road  have 
disappeared,  and  tradition  is  all  that  remains  — a 
tradition  so  intermingled  with  legends  that  a culling 
leaves  almost  nothing  of  reliable  history. 

It  is  quite  certain,  however,  that  the  old  town  was 
not  wholly  abandoned  for  the  new  one,  down  by  the 
water’s  edge,  until  after  the  revolution  that  freed 
Mexico  from  Spanish  rule.  When  in  Tepic,  Mr. 
Eugen  Hildebrand,  the  German  Consul,  showed  me  a 
book  written  by  one  James  Colnet,  an  English  whaling 
captain,  in  the  year  1798,  in  which  the  author  tells  of 
a voyage  he  made  on  the  Pacific  coast,  in  1792,  in 
search  of  the  spermaceti  whale.  The  Captain  was 
captured  by  the  Spaniards  and  taken  prisoner  to  San 


The  ruins  of  the  old  cathedral 


A corner  of  the  ruined  fortress 


IN  OLD  SAN  BLAS 


23 


Bias  fortress,  which  he  describes  as  “on  the  south 
side  of  the  Saint  Jago  River  ['Santiago/  as  we  spell 
it  now],  and  contains  the  grand  arsenal  and  dock- 
yards of  the  Province  of  Mexico.  ...  It  is  situated 
upon  a small  mount  that  rises  in  the  middle  of  a marsh, 
which  joins  the  dockyard  about  two  miles  from  it.  . . . 
The  face  of  the  rock  towards  the  sea  is  perpendicular, 
one  hundred  fathoms  high,  and  presents  a very  for- 
midable appearance.”  Captain  Colnet’s  estimate  of 
the  height  of  the  wall  is  at  least  two  hundred  feet  too 
great.  Otherwise  we  are  bound  to  accept  his  descrip- 
tion of  San  Bias  as  he  saw  it,  for,  as  far  as  we  can 
learn,  all  the  official  records  were  destroyed  during 
the  Mexican  revolution,  and  no  other  account  has 
survived. 

Of  course  we  had  to  climb  the  hill  with  Ramos,  and 
walk  around  the  massive  ruins  of  the  old  fort,  the  once 
beautiful  cathedral,  and  the  decayed  buildings  of  the 
town,  all  of  stone  blocks  cut  from  the  hill.  The 
interior  arches  of  the  cathedral  were  still  in  place. 
Two  mozos,  with  machetes,  cut  away  enough  of  the 
growth  to  enable  me  to  photograph  portions  of  the 
ruins.  The  cemetery,  farther  back,  is  still  used  for 
burial;  and  in  front  of  the  cathedral  we  found  some 
vine-covered  tombs.  What  a monument  to  dissipated 
power  and  lack  of  national  foresight  the  old  town  is! 
Here  crumbled  and  rotted  the  bones  of  Spain’s  great 
empire  on  the  Pacific. 

Amongst  the  many  legends  centring  around  old 
San  Bias  and  the  ruined  fortress  is  one,  devoutly 
believed  by  the  aged  peons,  of  the  Padre  Mercado,  a 
patriotic  priest  who  lived  here  during  the  early  days 
of  the  war  of  independence.  Padre  Mercado,  as  the 


24  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


legend  goes,  warmly  espoused  the  cause  of  the  revolu- 
tionists. He  roused  the  people  to  arms,  earnestly 
exhorted  them  to  fight  for  freedom  from  the  yoke  of 
Spanish  oppression,  and  personally  led  them  in  many 
desperate  assaults  against  the  fort.  One  day,  how- 
ever, he  was  discovered  within  the  town,  unguarded 
and  alone.  The  Spanish  soldiers  cut  off  his  retreat, 
and  hotly  pursued  by  them,  whose  desire  it  was  to 
capture  him  alive,  he  ran  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 
Nothing  but  death  on  the  rocks  below,  or  capture, 
seemed  left  to  him,  when  lo!  the  angels  of  God  inter- 
vened. The  Padre  was  surrounded  by  a blaze  of 
glory,  and  before  the  very  eyes  of  his  pursuers  ascended 
into  heaven! 

The  soldiers  who  witnessed  the  miracle  fled  in 
terror  to  the  fort,  and  reported  the  occurrence  to  the 
commandant.  This  officer  was  skeptical,  and  per- 
sonally conducted  a search  of  the  rocks  below  the 
cliff,  confidently  expecting  to  find  there  the  mangled 
remains  of  the  Padre.  But  the  search  was  unsuccess- 
ful, and  finally  even  he  had  to  accept,  in  the  face  of 
overwhelming  evidence,  the  truth  of  the  good  priest’s 
translation  into  Heaven. 

Another  version  of  the  story  is  that  the  body  was 
found  by  the  commandant,  and  as  an  example  to  the 
revolutionists  was  attached  to  a lariat  behind  horses 
and  ignominiously  dragged  through  the  streets.  This 
is  doubtless  what  really  happened,  though  the  reader 
is  free  to  decide  for  himself. 

Reluctantly  we  turned  from  the  old  town  to  the 
new.  Emerson’s  pigs  were  duly  admitted  to  citizen- 
ship, and  nothing  more  was  to  be  seen  or  done  in  San 
Bias.  Arrangements  had  been  made  with  mozos  to 


IN  OLD  SAN  BLAS 


25 


transport  the  pigs  and  heavier  luggage  up  the  Santiago 
River,  in  dugout  canoes,  to  the  Hacienda  San  Nicolas, 
while  the  personal  baggage  of  our  party  was  to  accom- 
pany us  upon  two  pack  mules,  as  we  journeyed  into 
the  distant  hills  and  mountains  of  Tepic,  which  lay 
in  a blue  haze  beyond  the  flat  lands  to  the  eastward. 


CHAPTER  III 


THE  PAST  AND  THE  PRESENT 

WE  had  hoped  to  get  an  early  morning  start,  and 
thus  avoid  the  scorching  rays  of  the  midday 
sun;  but  it  was  not  until  ten  o’clock  that 
our  mozos  announced  everything  ready,  and  we  finally 
mounted  and  rode  eastward  through  the  long  main 
street,  circled  the  foot  of  San  Bias  Hill,  and  out  into 
the  open  country. 

A short  way  from  town  a narrow  estuary  was  crossed 
upon  a catamaran  ferry  propelled  by  men  hauling 
upon  a rope  stretched  from  shore  to  shore.  Why  they 
do  not  bridge  this  bit  of  water  I do  not  know,  for 
it  is  little  wider  than  the  ferry-boat,  but  probably 
because  it  is  a source  of  income  to  the  Government. 
The  ferrymen  have  to  get  a concession,  for  which  they 
pay,  and  an  internal  revenue  is  collected  upon  all 
fares  received. 

For  four  or  five  miles  our  road  wound  through  a 
marsh,  and  for  a mile  our  horses  splashed  stirrup-deep 
in  water.  Then  we  reached  the  first  rise  of  the  foot- 
hills, and  a tropical  jungle,  dense  and  high,  closed  in 
upon  us,  and  shut  out  the  last  breath  of  air  that  in  the 
open  marsh  below  had  fanned  our  cheeks,  and  in  some 
degree  made  tolerable  the  burning  intensity  of  the 
noonday  sun.  I had  never  experienced  such  heat 
before.  In  a little  while  we  were  drenched  with  per- 
spiration. Our  clothing  clung  to  us  like  wet  bathing 

26 


THE  PAST  AND  THE  PRESENT 


27 


suits,  and  I recalled  Randall’s  comforting  assurance 
on  the  steamer.  We  were,  in  truth,  “bathing  in  the 
sunshine  of  tropical  Mexico.” 

Somewhere,  just  above  the  marsh,  a trail  branches 
off  to  the  left,  and  with  easier  grades  than  those  of 
the  old  military  road,  which  we  were  on,  follows  the 
valley  of  the  Santiago  River.  It  was  suggested  that 
we  turn  into  this,  but  the  mozos  informed  us  that  it 
had  not  yet  drained  since  the  rainy  season,  which  was 
just  at  an  end,  and  was  still  submerged  in  places; 
in  fact,  that  it  seldom  became  passable  before  the 
middle  of  December. 

But  we  did  not  mind  the  longer  and  steeper  way, 
for  we  were  treading  historic  ground,  and  were  filled 
with  the  romance  of  it.  Here  and  there  round  paving- 
stones,  laid  long  ago  by  the  Spaniards,  were  still  in 
place,  and  bits  of  supporting  wall  remained  to  tell 
of  the  infinite  labor  expended  in  the  construction  of 
the  road.  Three  centuries  fell  out  of  time  and  in  our 
fancy  we  saw  the  slaves  who  laid  those  very  stones 
toiling  under  the  lash  of  the  cruel  Spaniard;  trains  of 
gay  adventurers  rode  by;  we  heard  the  rumble  of 
heavy  artillery  wagons  on  the  rock-paved  road;  bands 
of  the  murderous  soldiers  of  the  Conquest  passed  us, 
leaving  behind  them  a trail  of  terror  and  of  blood.  In 
reality  the  old  highway  was  quite  deserted,  save  for 
one  pack  train  of  mules,  laden  with  merchandise,  that 
we  passed,  silently  wending  its  way  inland  to  Tepic 
City. 

Stately  palms  and  gigantic  ferns,  with  a luxuriant 
tropical  undergrowth,  made  impenetrable  the  jungle 
that  lined  our  road.  Marvellous  flowering  vines  that 
entwined  themselves  in  the  forest  trees,  blooming 


28  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


shrubs,  with  here  and  there  beautiful  orchids,  and 
masses  of  wild  honeysuckle,  gave  a setting  of  gorgeous 
color  and  charged  the  atmosphere  with  delicious  per- 
fume. Brilliant  plumaged  parrots  and  parrakeets 
screamed  discordantly  overhead,  ugly-looking  lizards 
scurried  out  of  our  path,  a grass-green  snake,  coiled 
around  the  naked  trunk  of  a tree,  high  up  in  the  air, 
swayed  his  head  back  and  forth  in  defiance,  and  an 
unseen  animal  crashed  away  into  the  jungle  as  we 
approached.  It  was  all  very  wonderful  to  me  and  I 
experienced  the  strange  sensation  of  having  lived 
through  all  this  before  in  some  far-away,  mystic  past, 
just  beyond  any  positive  remembrance.  It  was  like 
a dream  that  one  tries  vainly  to  recall  — “a  sleep  and 
a forgetting.” 

Neither  Randall  nor  I had  been  in  a saddle  for  over 
twenty  years,  until  this  day,  and  we  hailed  with  joy 
the  Indian  village  of  Libertad,  the  first  settlement  that 
we  reached,  when  we  rode  into  it  at  two  o’clock  in  the 
afternoon;  for  here  it  was  decided  that  we  should  rest 
ourselves  and  our  horses  for  an  hour,  and  eat  some 
luncheon. 

Libertad  is  a primitive  Indian  village,  with  a single 
long  street.  The  houses  are  built  of  poles  bound 
together  with  the  quamacate  plant — a vine-like  weed 
used  in  place  of  rope  — with  a space  between  each 
pole,  the  way  corn-cribs  are  built  in  the  States.  This 
space  admits  light  and  air.  The  roofs  are  thatched 
with  palm  leaves  or  grass;  and  some  of  the  houses 
have  sides  running  only  half-way  to  the  roof,  with 
the  upper  half  open.  No  nails  or  iron  in  any  form  are 
used  in  the  construction  of  these  buildings.  In  fact, 
the  people  live  practically  as  they  did  when  the  white 


A ruin  of  old  San  Bias 


A god  of  the  ancients 


THE  PAST  AND  THE  PRESENT 


29 


man  first  found  them;  civilization  has  had  small 
influence  upon  their  lives.  The  mule,  perhaps,  is 
the  only  innovation  of  note  since  their  forefathers 
owned  allegiance  to  Indian  tzins,  and  few  of  them 
possess  mules. 

Naked  children  ran  into  the  houses  as  we  approached, 
not  because  they  were  ashamed  of  their  nakedness,  for 
they  had  never  worn  clothing  any  more  than  the  pigs 
and  donkeys  that  shared  the  houses  with  them,  but 
because  they  were  startled  at  the  sudden  appearance 
of  so  many  strange  Americanos. 

We  engaged  an  old  woman  to  prepare  our  luncheon, 
and  while  we  waited  for  it  to  be  made  ready,  sought 
the  shade  of  a large  tree,  under  which  we  unpacked 
our  mules  and  loosed  the  cinches  of  our  saddles,  that 
the  animals  might  rest  while  we  stretched  our  legs. 

Presently  the  old  senora,  our  hostess,  called  us  and 
we  filed  into  her  shack  — one  of  the  best  houses  in 
the  town  — and  seated  ourselves  around  a small 
rough  table.  The  chairs  were  of  local  make,  with 
seats  of  rushes,  which  grow  plentifully  thereabouts. 
On  the  table  were  five  tin  plates  and  one  tin  cup  of 
water.  The  floor  of  the  cabin  was  Mother  Earth.  A 
litter  of  pigs  grunted  contentedly  at  our  feet,  and 
chickens  scratched  about  the  clay  fireplace,  built 
upon  a stone  foundation,  where  the  old  woman  was 
busily  engaged  slapping  tortillas  and  baking  them 
upon  a stone  griddle. 

The  tortilla  is  the  ancient  Indian  bread  of  Mexico. 
Its  only  constituent  is  Indian  corn  (maize)  which  the 
women  soak  in  lime-water  until  the  kernels  are  at 
the  point  of  bursting,  then  wash  it  thoroughly  until  it 
is  free  from  lime,  when  they  grind  it  by  rubbing  it  on 


30  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


a large  block  of  stone,  specially  cut  for  the  purpose, 
with  a smaller  stone  which  they  hold  in  the  hands. 
The  operation  looks  very  much  like  rubbing  clothes 
on  a washboard  and  is  a laborious  and  tedious  one. 
The  lime  renders  the  ground  corn  dough  adhesive,  like 
wheat  flour  dough,  and  it  is  easily  patted  between  the 
hands  into  cakes  the  size  and  shape  of  ordinary 
griddle  cakes,  which  are  baked  upon  a thin  stone 
griddle.  Though  no  salt  or  leaven  is  added,  fresh 
tortillas  are  exceedingly  palatable. 

The  one  other  food  mainstay  is  frijoles  — ordinary 
beans.  They  are  boiled  to  a mush,  and,  with  a liberal 
quantity  of  lard,  are  warmed,  as  required,  in  a flat 
earthen  dish  that  answers  for  a frying  pan.  The  very 
poor  people  do  not  always  have  the  luxury  of  frijoles, 
and  when  they  do  have  them,  cannot  always  afford 
the  lard. 

We  were  served  with  frijoles  and  tortillas,  and  an 
earthen  dish  of  exceedingly  hot  chilli  sauce. 

“I  have  no  knife  and  fork,”  said  Randall  when  we 
were  seated.  “Ask  her  for  them,  Gates.  She ’s  for- 
gotten them.” 

“Knives  and  forks!”  exclaimed  Gates.  “They 
don’t  have  luxuries  like  knives  and  forks  here.  The 
only  household  utensils  that  this  woman  has  you  see 
before  you.” 

Gates  took  a tortilla  in  his  fingers,  broke  it  in  two, 
shaped  one  piece  into  a scoop,  pushed  the  frijoles  on 
it  with  the  other,  and  ate.  We  followed  his  example. 

“Verily,  man’s  wants  are  few  when  he  does  n’t 
know  any  better,”  remarked  Randall,  between  efforts 
to  get  the  beans  safely  to  his  mouth. 

W’e  ate  heartily,  taking  turns  at  the  cup  of  water, 


THE  PAST  AND  THE  PRESENT 


31 


and  appeased  our  hunger,  which  was  great  — it  had 
to  be.  But  we  did  not  trouble  ourselves  to  look  criti- 
cally into  the  uncleanliness  of  the  culinary  proceed- 
ings. A microscopical  examination  was  unnecessary. 
There  are  times  when  it  is  well  for  a traveller’s  peace 
of  mind  if  he  is  not  too  close  an  observer. 

“ ‘Libertad’  means  ‘Liberty,’”  observed  Randall, 
as  we  sat  in  the  shade  to  smoke  while  the  mozos  ate. 
“I  suppose  they  call  the  place  that  because  everything 
is  so  free  and  easy  here  — no  restriction  on  pigs  or 
chickens  or  mules  going  into  the  houses,  and  young- 
sters wear  clothes  or  not  as  they  please.  But  there ’s 
discrimination.  Now  the  pediculus  capitis  is  not 
allowed  to  pursue  its  vocation  uninterrupted.  See 
that  fond  mamma  chase  ’em?  ” And  with  his  pipe  he 
indicated  a woman  searching  for  ideas  in  her  offspring’s 
shock  of  black  hair.  Her  frequent  captures  furnished 
us  amusement  for  a while.  We  soon  became  accus- 
tomed to  this,  however.  In  every  native  village  we 
rode  through  we  saw  women  and  children  engaged  in 
the  pastime. 

We  paid  at  the  rate  of  twelve  centavos  (six  cents) 
each  for  our  entertainment,  cinched  up  our  saddles, 
and  rode  away  at  three  o’clock.  Below  Libertad  the 
soil  was  a gray  loam,  and  stony.  Here  it  changed  to 
a Venetian  red,  quite  free  from  stones  and  more 
arable.  The  jungle  was  not  nearly  so  dense,  though 
there  were  nearly  as  many  trees. 

We  passed  a good  many  cattle,  all  of  the  long-horn 
breed,  such  as  we  used  to  have  in  Texas.  The  swine 
were  the  most  disreputable,  long-nosed,  razor-backed, 
stunted  brutes  on  earth.  I resolved  then  and  there 
to  eat  no  pork  during  my  stay  in  Mexico.  Dogs  were 


32  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


numerous  about  the  huts,  and  many  of  them  were 
mangy.  We  saw  dogs  without  a hair  on  their  poor, 
starved,  miserable  bodies. 

We  halted  at  a spring  by  the  roadside  and  drank 
the  almost  lukewarm  water  from  a cow’s  horn  that 
Miguel,  one  of  the  mozos,  carried  on  his  saddle.  I 
inquired  what  particular  use  the  horn  was  put  to,  and 
at  Gates’  request  Miguel  blew  a blast  upon  it.  He 
used  it  to  call  his  mules. 

It  was  six  o’clock  when  we  reached  Navarrete,  the 
next  town  beyond  Libertad,  where  we  were  to  stop 
for  the  night.  It  seemed  to  me  I never  was  so  weary 
in  my  life  as  when  we  finally  halted  in  front  of  our 
hotel,  and  I was  so  lame  I could  scarcely  dismount. 

Emerson  had  given  us  a glowing  description  of  this 
hotel.  He  told  us  it  was  the  best  appointed  hotel 
in  this  part  of  the  country,  and  here  we  could  rest  and 
enjoy  all  the  luxuries  the  country  afforded.  So  our 
expectations  were  pitched  to  a high  degree.  When  we 
viewed  the  hostelry  they  fell  with  a thump.  It  was 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  a shack  similar  to  those 
we  had  seen  at  Libertad,  but  on  a somewhat  larger 
scale.  The  “dining  saloon,”  as  Emerson  jocularly 
called  it,  was  enclosed  by  a fence,  and  the  entrance 
was  through  a gate.  A hog  was  eating  its  supper  of 
corn  under  the  table,  chickens  were  going  to  roost 
just  behind  it,  and  two  or  three  parrots  perched  on  a 
bar  under  the  eaves  were  swearing  volubly  in  Mexican 
Spanish  — I should  think  they  would  have  been  swear- 
ing. 

We  wTere  cordially  greeted  by  two  senoritas  — one 
of  them  with  a round,  bright  face  — and  an  old  senora. 
Gates  gave  them  an  order  for  supper,  while  the  mozos 


THE  PAST  AND  THE  PRESENT 


33 


piled  our  saddles  and  baggage  in  one  end  of  the  room, 
or  rather,  shed,  for  that  is  the  most  dignified  name  it 
deserves. 

A Mexican  whose  horse  was  standing  outside  was 
finishing  his  meal.  He  paid  his  dues,  looked  at  his 
six-shooter  to  see  that  it  was  properly  loaded,  and 
then  took  a Winchester  rifle  from  the  saddle  boot  and 
filled  the  magazine  with  cartridges,  remarking,  as  he 
did  so,  that  he  had  to  ride  to  Santiago  that  night,  and 
there  were  bad  men  in  the  country.  As  he  mounted 
and  trotted  off,  I noticed  that  he  also  carried  a sword. 

One  of  the  senoritas  removed  a chicken  from  the 
roost,  killed  it,  and  while  the  operation  of  dressing  it 
for  our  supper  was  under  way,  we  unbuckled  our  artil- 
lery, threw  it  on  the  table,  for  it  was  heavy,  and  strolled 
up  the  street  to  the  village  store,  where  they  dispensed 
goods  in  centavos’  worth  to  big-hatted  natives. 

Emerson,  Randall,  and  I were  the  first  to  return. 
The  round-faced  senorita  approached  me  — as  the 
most  reputable  looking  and  most  dignified  member  of 
the  party  — and  asked  me  something  in  Spanish.  I 
asked  the  others  what  she  said.  Emerson,  like  Ran- 
dall, had  learned  some  Castilian  Spanish,  and  they  both 
agreed  that  she  wanted  to  know  if  we  would  have 
potatoes  for  supper.  Again  I summoned  my  Spanish 
vocabulary,  and  said, 

“Si,  senorita.” 

She  looked  at  me  in  bewilderment,  and  when  she 
recovered  her  breath  talked  some  more.  The  others 
decided  that  after  all  she  might  not  have  asked  about 
potatoes.  They  would  like  to  have  potatoes,  and  that 
was  what  had  suggested  the  idea.  They  did  not  know 
what  she  wanted,  for  her  Spanish  was  very  bad.  In 


34  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


the  uncertainty  I stood  by  my  original  position  and 
repeated,  “Si,  senorita.”  I could  not  think  of  any- 
thing else  to  say.  Gates’  opportune  return  relieved  the 
situation.  What  she  wanted  to  know  was  whether  we 
would  have  our  eggs  boiled  or  fried. 

We  took  occasion  to  berate  Emerson  for  telling  us 
things  about  this  hotel  that  were  not  in  accordance 
with  facts,  but  he  defended  himself  with  the  conten- 
tion that  everything  he  had  said  was  strictly  true. 
“It  is,”  he  insisted,  “the  best  hotel  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, for  it ’s  the  only  one  here.” 

So  we  held  our  peace,  swallowed  our  disappoint- 
ment, and  washed  for  supper,  all  using  a common 
wash  dish  and  towel.  There  was  no  soap  — that  is 
not  deemed  a necessity  in  this  section  of  Mexico. 

After  supper,  when  some  of  our  party  went  down 
to  a near-by  brook  to  bathe  their  feet,  the  women  made 
quite  a hue  and  cry  about  it,  declaring  the  alligators 
would  get  them;  but  every  one  came  back  unharmed, 
though  we  learned  afterwards  it  was  a rendezvous 
for  alligators,  and  that  the  reptiles  were  inclined  to 
be  sportive. 

The  bedroom  — there  was  but  one  to  accommodate 
all  comers  — had  no  floor.  The  canvas  cots  were 
arranged  in  rows,  like  beds  in  a hospital  ward,  each 
having  its  canopy  of  cheese-cloth.  We  looked  care- 
fully under  the  sheet  to  drive  away  any  scorpions  or 
centipedes  that  might  be  lying  in  wait  for  us,  and  then 
undressed  and  crawled  in  with  our  guns  within  reach, 
for  we  were  strangers  in  a strange  land,  and  a native 
had  shown  us  by  example  that  it  was  a wise  precaution 
to  have  our  arms  ready. 

Disturbing  influences  made  themselves  felt  immedi- 


THE  PAST  AND  THE  PRESENT 


35 


ately.  Nature  distributes  her  bounties  pretty  evenly 
throughout  the  world.  The  human  population  of 
Mexico  is  not  over-endowed  with  energy  — in  fact  it 
is  very  decidedly  under-endowed  in  that  respect  — so 
there  is  that  much  animal  energy  due  to  the  country, 
and  it  has,  by  the  law  of  nature,  to  manifest  itself  in 
some  other  quarter.  We  soon  learned  what  quarter. 

I was  dreaning  of  mounted  Mexicans  bristling  with 
arms,  of  bad  men,  of  gun  play  and  desperate  battles, 
when  I awoke  with  a start.  Outside  there  was  racket 
enough  to  raise  the  dead.  My  first  thought  was  that 
we  were  really  attacked  by  desperadoes.  Randall  con- 
firmed my  fears. 

“Hist!”  he  warned,  in  a stage  whisper.  “We  are 
attacked!  Make  ready  for  the  fray!” 

I made  ready.  I grasped  my  six-shooter,  deter- 
mined to  sell  my  life  as  dearly  as  possible.  But  it 
turned  out  to  be  nothing  more  formidable  than  a 
party  of  Mexican  horsemen  demanding  entertainment 
for  the  balance  of  the  night.  A great  deal  of  loud 
talking  was  indulged  in  while  they  had  their  supper 
prepared,  and  ate  it  in  the  adjoining  “dining  saloon,” 
before  they  were  finally  escorted  into  our  chamber, 
and  went  to  bed  in  some  of  the  vacant  cots. 

When  things  had  again  quieted  down,  save  for  the 
peaceful  snores  of  the  new  arrivals,  I turned  over  for 
another  nap.  But  slumber  was  not  for  me.  A dog 
began  to  howl  dismally,  then  another,  and  in  less  than 
three  minutes  a thousand  dogs  were  devoting  their 
energies  to  howling  — I wish  to  be  accurate,  and  I 
vouch  for  the  accuracy  of  this  statement,  for  I counted 
the  different-keyed  voices  of  the  canine  population  of 
Navarrete  while  I lay  and  planned  dire  vengeance 


36  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


upon  them.  Somebody  went  out  and  beat  one  dog 
into  silence,  and  I should  judge,  from  the  sound  of 
the  whacks,  into  insensibility,  but  it  made  no  appre- 
ciable difference  in  the  volume  of  sound.  Then  the 
roosters  began  to  crow  in  the  dining  saloon,  mules 
and  donkeys  in  untold  numbers  joined  the  chorus 
with  their  heart-rending  brays,  cattle  bellowed,  we 
heard  our  mozos  feeding  our  animals,  and  we  arose. 
It  was  not  daylight  yet,  but  we  had  a burning  desire 
to  get  away  and  enjoy  new  experiences.  These  were 
growing  monotonous. 

In  the  dim  candlelight,  Emerson  reached  for  one  of 
his  shoes  and  a lizard,  fully  a foot  long,  jumped  out 
of  it  and  scurried  off  into  the  darkness.  After  that 
we  shook  out  our  shoes  and  clothes  before  we  ventured 
into  them. 

Breakfast  was  eaten  before  daybreak,  and  with 
dawn  we  mounted  and  took  the  trail  to  Santiago 
Ixcuintla. 


CHAPTER  IV 


A LAND  OF  PROMISE 

HE  village  of  Navarrete  has  a population  of 


five  hundred  people.  It  is  the  centre  of  the 


Hacienda  Navarrete,  a hacienda  containing 
upwards  of  two  hundred  and  ten  thousand  acres,  and 
owned  by  a native  Mexican  to  whom  it  has  probably 
been  handed  down  through  generations.  It  is  hard 
for  one  to  realize  the  immense  territory  embraced 
within  the  boundaries  of  this  single  ranch  — three 
hundred  and  twenty-eight  square  miles,  or  an  area 
equal  to  nearly  one-third  of  the  State  of  Rhode  Island. 
It  is  only  an  example,  however,  of  many  of  the  large 
landed  estates  of  the  Republic  — some  much  larger, 
some  smaller. 

The  ranch  house  is  the  only  building  of  substantial 
construction  on  the  place,  and  is  of  stone  and  mortar. 
All  the  others  are  the  flimsy,  thatched-roofed  huts 
typical  of  the  tierra  caliente.  Libertad  and  several 
other  small  Indian  villages  are  situated  upon  the 
Hacienda  Navarrete,  and  the  people  who  inhabit 
them  are  little  better  than  serfs. 

The  soil  is  rich,  deep,  and  practically  inexhaustible. 
Fertilization  is  never  thought  of,  and  is  unnecessary. 
On  the  various  elevations  almost  anything  can  be 
grown,  from  bananas  to  corn,  coffee,  and  rubber. 
Pineapples  grow  wild,  limes,  lemons,  and  oranges  are 
abundant  in  the  uncultivated  state.  Corn  yields  two 


37 


38  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


and  sometimes  three  crops  a year  without  irrigation, 
and  nearly  every  stalk  bears  two  large  ears.  We  saw 
some  remarkable  fields  of  the  ripening  grain. 

Tobacco,  corn,  beans,  and  a little  cotton  are  prac- 
tically the  only  crops,  however,  to  which  any  attention 
whatever  is  given  on  this  hacienda,  and  the  methods 
of  planting  and  harvesting  are  the  crudest.  None 
of  the  modes  of  modern  scientific  farming  are  known. 
The  forked  stick  of  ancient  Egypt  is  the  plough,  the 
machete  is  the  cultivator.  Hundreds  of  pack  mules 
carry  the  produce  to  market,  but  so  little  of  the  land 
is  cleared  and  under  cultivation  that  the  tilled  portion 
is  hardly  noticeable.  The  greater  part  is  overrun 
with  a rank,  wild  growth,  through  which  long-horned 
cattle  range  and  are  guarded  from  wild  beasts  by 
Indian  herdsmen. 

Land  is  a heritage  and  not  a commodity  to  the 
Mexican,  and  unless  he  is  pressed  for  funds  it  is  not 
usual  for  him  to  offer  his  estate  for  sale.  Of  course, 
a liberal  offer  and  the  glitter  of  gold  are  always  strong 
arguments  which  go  far  to  overcome  his  prejudices. 
At  the  present  time  from  two  to  four  pesos  an  acre, 
to  include  appurtenances,  is  deemed  an  average  valua- 
tion, but  it  is  possible  to  buy  land  only  in  large  parcels 
of  many  thousand  acres  at  that  rate. 

They  told  us  that  two  years  before  our  visit  the 
Hacienda  Navarrete  was  offered  for  sale  for  five 
hundred  thousand  pesos.  Now  the  asking  price  — 
unless  it  has  advanced  again  — is  one  million  pesos. 
This  hacienda  pays  its  owner  an  income  of  fifty  thou- 
sand pesos  a year,  and  he  gives  it  absolutely  no  per- 
sonal attention,  leaving  every  detail  to  his  head  mozo. 
The  mozo  sends  the  cattle  and  produce  to  market, 


Pack  train  on  the  road  to  Tepic 


Stately  palms  and  gigantic  ferns  lined  our  trail 


A LAND  OF  PROMISE 


39 


and  turns  over  the  proceeds  to  his  master,  who  does 
not  look  at  the  accounts,  and  cares  nothing  about 
them  so  long  as  his  expensive  habits  and  appetites 
are  satisfied.  A gentleman  of  my  acquaintance  asked 
him  once  if  he  did  not  think  a large  part  of  the  pro- 
ceeds from  the  hacienda  were  stolen. 

“Oh,  no,”  he  answered,  “there  is  no  occasion  for 
my  head  mozo  to  steal.  I pay  him  liberally  for 
managing  the  hacienda.” 

“How  much  do  you  pay  him?”  was  asked. 

“Forty-five  pesos  a month,”  was  the  reply. 

Forty-five  pesos!  Twenty-two  and  a half  dollars 
a month  to  manage  that  stupendous  estate ! I wonder 
if  that  mozo  steals?  Perhaps  not;  but  honesty,  under 
the  most  favorable  circumstances,  is  not  one  of  the 
shining  virtues  of  a Mexican  mozo. 

Real  estate  titles  in  Mexico  were  formerly  much 
involved  and  exceedingly  unstable.  To  cure  defects, 
President  Diaz,  a few  years  ago,  issued  an  edict  requir- 
ing that  all  titles  be  submitted  for  confirmation  by 
himself  or  his  authorized  deputies.  This  confirma- 
tion amounted  to  a new  grant  from  the  Government, 
which  was  unassailable  for  any  cause.  Titles  not 
submitted  within  a specified  period  reverted  to  the 
Government,  and  the  land  covered  by  them  became 
a part  of  the  public  domain,  to  be  thrown  open  to 
denouncement.  Some  of  the  more  ignorant  hacienda 
owners  gave  no  attention  whatever  to  the  edict,  and 
theoretically  they  lost  their  properties,  to  which  they 
presumably  had  defective  titles.  In  conformance  with 
the  terms  of  the  edict  these  estates  were  at  once  listed 
as  government  lands,  and  offered  by  the  land  office 
for  sale. 


40  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


An  acquaintance  whom  I met  in  the  course  of  my 
travels  in  Mexico  told  me  that  he  purchased  from 
the  Government  a tract  of  these  lands  approximating 
fifty  thousand  acres.  When  he  went  to  claim  his 
property,  he  found  it  in  possession  of  an  old  Mexican 
who  claimed  ownership  of  it,  in  spite  of  the  govern- 
ment grant.  The  Mexican  had  lived  upon  it  all  his 
life,  and  it  had  been  in  his  family  for  many  genera- 
tions. It  was  stocked  with  several  thousand  head  of 
cattle,  under  the  charge  of  cowboys  who  carried  revol- 
vers. The  Mexican  and  his  grown  sons  also  carried 
revolvers.  When  my  acquaintance  demanded  posses- 
sion, the  Mexican  informed  him  that  the  land  was  his, 
title  or  no  title,  government  grant  or  no  grant,  and  he 
intended  to  hold  it  against  all  comers, — that  he  and  his 
men.  would  shoot  anybody  found  trespassing  upon  it. 

The  purchaser  discreetly  retired  to  the  land  office, 
and  demanded  to  be  put  into  possession  of  the  prop- 
erty for  which  he  had  paid.  Here  he  was  told  that 
the  Government  had  undertaken  only  to  sell  him  a 
sound  title,  and  not  to  put  him  into  possession.  Such 
a title  had  been  delivered  to  him,  and  the  Govern- 
ment could  not  in  addition  attempt  to  dispossess 
trespassers.  He  must  do  that  himself,  but  he  must 
not  kill  anybody  in  doing  it.  Perhaps  the  courts 
could  help  him.  Now  a man  may  be  born,  live  out 
a long  and  eventful  career,  die  and  be  forgotten,  while 
the  machinery  of  the  courts  is  getting  ready  to  be 
put  into  motion.  The  result  is,  my  acquaintance  is 
the  owner  of  fifty  thousand  acres  of  good  Mexican  land 
that  he  cannot  set  his  foot  upon,  and  of  which  he  may 
never  get  control. 

I cite  this  as  a warning  to  would-be  investors.  It 


A LAND  OF  PROMISE 


41 


is  a wise  precaution  to  first  learn,  before  accepting 
land  office  titles,  whether  the  land  one  wishes  to  buy 
is  free  from  the  encumbrance  of  belligerent  claimants 
in  possession.  My  acquaintance  did  not  take  this 
precaution.  He  purchased  in  good  faith,  believing 
he  was  getting  a wild  and  unoccupied  tract. 

I was  very  stiff  indeed  when  I mounted  my  horse 
at  Navarrete,  but  a few  miles  at  a smart  trot  limbered 
up  my  joints,  and  as  I became  accustomed  to  the 
saddle  and  motion,  enjoyed  keenly  the  wild  new  coun- 
try through  which  we  were  riding.  Our  trail  was  in 
excellent  condition,  but  finally  took  to  the  shores  of 
a creek,  crossing  and  recrossing  it,  and  we  were  forced 
to  make  frequent  circuits  through  thick  undergrowth 
to  avoid  quagmires. 

During  the  morning  two  or  three  small  Indian 
villages  were  passed,  where  naked  children  watched 
us  curiously,  and  women  grinding  corn  stopped  their 
work  to  gaze.  Near  each  village  several  scantily 
clad  women,  sitting  upon  rocks  at  the  edge  of  the 
creek,  were  busily  engaged  in  rubbing  clothes  on  flat 
stones,  and  pounding  the  garments  vigorously  against 
bowlders.  This  is  the  Mexican  laundry,  and  every 
day  is  wash  day.  I often  wondered  what  they  did 
with  the  garments  after  they  were  washed,  for  no 
one  that  we  saw  appeared  to  be  seriously  addicted  to 
the  habit  of  wearing  clean  clothing. 

There  were  hot  springs,  said  to  possess  curative 
qualities,  not  far  from  one  of  the  settlements.  Aguas 
Calientes  (hot  water)  the  village  was  called.  One 
finds  a great  many  hot  springs  in  the  course  of  a jour- 
ney through  Mexico,  and  wherever  there  is  a settle- 
ment near  one  of  them,  it  is  sure  to  be  called  “Aguas 


42  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


Cali  elites.’ ’ I visited  at  least  a half-dozen  “Aguas 
Calientes”  in  the  course  of  my  travels,  and  I am  sure 
I overlooked  several  by  not  inquiring  their  names. 

In  one  of  the  villages,  we  reined  up  at  a shack  where 
fruit  was  sold,  and  purchased  some  oranges  and  sugar- 
cane. The  green  cane  is  chewed  by  the  natives  for 
the  sap,  and  among  the  peon  population  takes  the 
place  of  candy.  Gates  said  we  would  surely  have 
calentura  if  we  ate  it,  but  we  had  been  warned  against 
bananas,  oranges,  milk,  water,  and  almost  everything 
edible  and  drinkable  by  our  friends  on  the  San  Jose 
and  others  who  had  travelled  in  Mexico,  until  there 
was  little  or  nothing  left  that  did  not  seem  to  lay  one 
open  to  the  fever.  For  my  part,  I disregarded  all 
their  warnings,  and  ate  the  sugar-cane  and  anything 
else  my  appetite  craved  that  came  within  my  reach. 
The  sugar-cane  produced  here  is  of  the  finest  quality, 
heavily  charged  with  sugar,  and  delicious. 

Since  leaving  San  Bias  we  had  observed  ugly, 
ghoulish  vultures  everywhere  feeding  upon  refuse 
and  carrion.  They  were  exceedingly  tame.  Hogs 
and  vultures  combine  to  keep  Mexico  in  something 
like  a sanitary  condition.  The  people  themselves 
pay  absolutely  no  regard  to  sanitation,  and  if  it  were 
not  for  the  vultures  and  the  hogs  the  country  would 
be  in  a constant  state  of  pestilence  through  the  unbe- 
lievably filthy  customs  of  the  natives. 

Now  and  again  pack  trains  crowded  us  off  the  trail, 
the  mules  heavily  laden  with  merchandise  for  the 
Santiago  Ixcuintla  shops,  or  with  bales  of  cotton 
destined  for  the  mills  at  Tepic  City,  there  to  be  manu- 
factured into  the  gaudy  colored  zerapes,  or  the  coarse 
cotton  fabrics  worn  by  the  peons. 


A LAND  OF  PROMISE 


43 


Once  we  met  a muleteer  with  three  or  four  mules 
deliberately  proceeding  with  the  Santiago  Ixcuintla 
mail,  en  route  to  the  railroad  at  San  Marcos.  During 
the  season  of  high  water  in  the  rivers,  when  the  stage 
does  not  run,  it  is  the  custom  to  let  the  mail  accumu- 
late at  Santiago  Ixcuintla,  as  it  comes  in  from  day  to 
day  from  the  surrounding  villages  and  towns,  until 
the  officials  of  the  post-office  deem  it  worth  while  to 
make  up  a pack  train  and  despatch  it. 

We  gave  all  the  pack  trains  we  met  a wide  berth, 
for  pack  mules  turn  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the 
left  for  man  or  beast,  but  demand  a clear  right  of  way: 
and  unless  you  wish  to  have  your  legs  well  scraped 
against  their  packs,  you  will  be  discreet  and  recognize 
their  claims. 

But  the  most  interesting  and  picturesque,  perhaps, 
of  all  the  travellers  we  met  were  the  members  of  a 
little  Indian  family  in  the  act  of  moving.  It  was  like 
a glimpse  of  the  Orient.  Their  household  goods  and 
all  their  worldly  possessions  were  loaded  upon  a 
burro,  the  mother  with  an  infant  in  her  arms  perched 
on  top,  while  the  father  walked  by  the  side.  They  re- 
minded me  of  the  picture  we  are  so  familiar  with  of 
the  flight  of  Joseph  and  Mary  with  the  child  Jesus. 

The  soil  of  the  whole  country  through  which  we 
were  passing  was  rich  and  arable,  and  capable  of  being 
turned  into  a veritable  paradise.  This  is  on  the  line 
of  the  extension  of  the  Southern  Pacific  Railroad, 
now  under  construction,  and  I could  not  but  picture 
to  myself  the  wonderful  transformation  that  is  in 
store  for  it  during  the  next  decade,  when  American 
capital,  which  is  sure  to  follow  the  opening  of  the 
railway,  takes  hold  of  it. 


44  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


What  opportunities  for  investment  it  offers!  And 
now  is  the  time  to  strike.  Investors  who  take  hold 
of  this  land  now,  while  it  can  be  had  at  a merely 
nominal  price,  will  reap  fortunes  in  colonization 
later.  The  prices  will  advance  by  leaps  and  bounds 
with  the  opening  of  the  railroad.  Then  will  come  the 
transformation  of  jungles  into  orange  groves,  fields 
of  grain  will  spring  up,  rich  harvests  of  bananas, 
pineapples,  and  the  hundred  other  profitable  crops 
the  land  is  capable  of  will  be  gathered,  and  from 
the  near-by  hills  will  come  as  fine  coffee  as  tropical 
America  can  grow. 

Perhaps  this  is  too  optimistic  a view  to  take,  but 
we  shall  see.  I have  travelled  from  seaboard  to  sea- 
board of  the  United  States,  but  have  seen  nothing 
to  compare  with  this  land  in  natural  resources.  There 
is  plenty  of  water  for  irrigation,  but  irrigation  is  not 
absolutely  necessary  in  this  section  of  Tepic  Territory. 

We  are  now  in  the  region  which  the  armed  rider 
at  Navarrete  had  referred  to  the  previous  evening  as 
a likely  place  for  hold-ups.  Emerson  loosened  the 
flap  of  his  holster,  for  he  had  considerable  currency 
about  him  and  wished  to  be  prepared  for  an  emergency. 

“Are  the  natives  here  good  with  guns?”  I inquired. 

“Oh,  no,”  said  he,  “not  generally.  They  are  about 
like  the  Don  that  used  to  own  our  hacienda.  When 
I came  down  here  first  to  look  over  the  property  he 
was  showing  me  around  one  day  when  a dog  insisted 
on  following  us.  The  Don  did  n’t  want  its  company 
and  tried  to  drive  it  back,  but  it  would  n’t  go.  He  got 
in  a rage  at  it,  and  drew  his  gun.  The  animal  was 
close  to  us  — not  over  five  or  six  paces  away  — and 
I thought  he ’d  kill  it  the  first  crack,  but  he  did  n’t. 


Waiting  for  the  ferry  at  La 


A typical  wooden  cart  ( each  wheel  is  made  from  a log  segment,  the  pole 
is  mahogany,  and  no  iron  whatever  is  used  in  construction ) 


A LAND  OF  PROMISE 


45 


He  emptied  his  gun  at  it  and  never  hit  it.  He  was  so 
angry  at  missing  that  he  threw  the  gun  at  it,  and  did  n’t 
even  hit  it  with  that.  Then  he  went  up  and  kicked 
the  dog  and  sent  it  away  whining.  And  the  poor 
brute  had  been  considerate  enough  to  stand  still  and 
give  the  fellow  every  chance!  I don’t  think  they’re 
much  with  the  gun.” 

Presently  we  came  to  a collection  of  Indian  huts 
on  the  bank  of  the  Santiago  River,  which  we  were 
informed  was  the  village  of  La  Presa;  and  just  across 
the  river  lay  the  important  town  of  Santiago  Ixcuintla. 
Here  Mr.  Fritz  Kaiser,  bookkeeper  for  the  Hacienda 
San  Nicolas,  joined  our  party. 

A group  of  picturesque  natives,  a pack  train,  and  a 
cumbrous  cart  of  prehistoric  design,  drawn  by  four 
oxen  and  looking  as  though  it  had  been  transplanted 
from  Egypt,  were  waiting  to  be  carried  across  the  river 
on  the  batangas  — a ferry-boat  constructed  of  two 
dugout  canoes  supporting  a platform,  with  a railing 
built  around  the  platform. 

The  ox  cart  brings  to  my  mind  an  article  on  Mexico 
that  appeared  in  one  of  the  popular  magazines  two 
or  three  years  ago.  An  illustration  accompanying 
the  article  was  a photograph  of  one  of  these  ancient 
carts.  The  author,  a woman,  described  it  as  a type 
of  vehicle  "now  obsolete  in  Mexico,”  and  stated  that 
the  photograph  illustrating  her  article  was  of  the  only 
cart  of  the  kind  remaining  in  the  Republic.  "This 
cart  was  rescued,”  the  article  stated,  "by  the  Mexican 
Government  to  become  part  of  an  anthropological 
exhibit  in  one  of  the  museums.”  According  to  my 
observation,  it  is  about  the  only  type  of  vehicle  to 
be  seen  in  Mexico  outside  of  the  larger  towns  and 


46  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


cities.  You  see  these  carts  everywhere,  with  ponder- 
ous wheels  cut  from  a single  segment  of  tree,  with 
ebony  axles  and  mahogany  poles,  and  not  a scrap  of 
iron  used  in  the  construction. 

It  was  noon  when  we  led  our  horses  and  mules  upon 
the  flimsy  batangas,  which  was  propelled  across  the 
shallow  river  by  men  with  long  poles,  and  on  the 
other  side  proceeded  at  once  to  the  Hotel  Sur  Pacifico. 
We  had  been  in  the  saddle  for  six  consecutive  hours, 
and  here  we  were  to  rest  ourselves  and  our  tired 
animals,  and  get  a glimpse  of  the  quaint  old  town, 
before  taking  the  trail  again  after  the  siesta  hour. 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  SANTIAGO  RIVER  TRAIL 

HE  boniface  of  the  Hotel  Sur  Pacifico  came 


personally  to  receive  us  as  we  rode  through 


the  high  doorway  of  his  hotel  into  the  patio. 
He  told  us  he  was  quite  overcome  by  the  honor  of 
entertaining  so  many  distinguished  guests.  He  would 
do  his  best  to  be  worthy  of  that  honor.  Would  the 
Americanos  make  themselves  comfortable?  The  house 
and  all  it  held  was  theirs.  I do  not  know  how  much 
more  than  the  regular  rate  for  entertainment  he 
charged  us  for  bestowing  that  “honor”  upon  him. 
In  Eastern  Mexico  along  the  lines  of  tourist  travel  all 
Americans  are  looked  upon  as  a happy  combination 
of  “easy  mark”  and  “bloated  plutocrat,”  especially 
created  for  the  enrichment  of  native  merchants  and 
hotel-keepers,  and  prices  always  advance  temporarily 
when  a “gringo”  appears.  This  custom  has  crept 
even  into  the  isolated  towns  of  the  western  slope, 
where  the  only  Americans  ever  seen  are  occasional 
miners  or  prospectors. 

To  the  average  Mexican  all  Americans  are  “gringos.” 
They  are  too  polite  to  call  you  a gringo  to  your  face, 
but  amongst  themselves  it  is  the  term  generally  used 
in  referring  to  Americans.  It  is  a term  of  disrespect, 
just  as  “greaser,”  when  applied  to  a Mexican,  is  an 
opprobrious  term.  “Gringo”  had  its  origin  during 


47 


48  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


our  war  with  Mexico  in  1847.  Bobby  Burns’  song, 
with  the  chorus,  — 

“ Green  grow  the  rashes,  0; 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  0; 

The  sweetest  hours  that  e’er  I spend, 

Are  spent  among  the  lasses,  0,” 

was  very  popular  then,  and  our  soldiers  in  Mexico 
sang  it  on  the  march  and  on  nearly  every  occasion. 
“Green  grow”  sounded  like  “gringo”  to  the  Mexicans, 
unacquainted  with  English,  and  they  quickly  learned 
to  speak  of  the  American  soldiers  as  “gringos,”  and 
thenceforth  this  appellation  has  been  attached  to  all 
Americans* 

A string  band  serenaded  with  soft,  sweet  music  a 
newly  married  couple,  who  were  at  dinner  in  the 
patio,  and  while  we  ate  in  the  dining-room  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  patio,  we  enjoyed  the  luxury  of 
the  music.  Mexicans  are  natural  musicians,  and  this 
band  played  well. 

We  dined  leisurely  and  then  wandered  down  to  the 
plaza  and  market-place,  which  was  similar  to  that  at 
San  Bias,  though  on  a larger  scale.  Santiago  Ixcuintla 
has  a population  of  four  thousand  persons.  Situated 
upon  the  Santiago  River,  it  has  considerable  traffic 
and  trading  by  canoe,  and  is  a distributing  point  for 
merchandise  for  a wide  territory.  Mule  trains,  laden 
with  produce,  are  constantly  moving  in  and  out,  and 

* There  are  many  theories  as  to  the  origin  of  the  word  “ grin- 
gos7' as  applied  to  Americans.  This  one  seems  to  me  the  most 
reasonable.  A gentleman,  however,  who  has  travelled  extensively  in 
South  America,  and  has  endeavored  to  trace  the  word  to  its  beginning, 
assures  me  Americans  were  known  as  “ gringos  ” in  various  South 
American  countries  long  before  our  war  with  Mexico.  D.  W. 


THE  SANTIAGO  RIVER  TRAIL 


49 


the  town  has  an  air  of  prosperity  and  activity.  Three 
or  four  American  miners  make  their  headquarters  here; 
otherwise  the  population  is  Mexican.  As  in  most 
of  the  larger  towns  and  cities,  the  principal  business 
men  are  strongly  of  Spanish  type,  while  the  peons 
and  mass  of  the  population  are  Indian. 

Santiago  Ixcuintla  is  built  upon  a hillside,  rising 
abruptly  from  the  river,  and  presents  a picturesque 
appearance  from  a distance;  but  upon  entering  the 
town  one  finds  the  streets  to  be  narrow  and  ill-kempt, 
as  is  so  often  the  case  in  Mexico. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  street  objects  to  the 
stranger  is  the  water-carrier,  who  is  to  be  seen  in  every 
town  in  Western  Mexico.  With  two  or  three  mules, 
each  carrying  a bent-wood  pannier  in  which  are 
balanced,  two  on  either  side  of  the  animal,  red  clay 
water  jugs,  the  carrier,  perched  upon  the  jugs  on  one 
of  the  mules,  jogs  from  house  to  house  selling  the  water. 
There  are  no  city  water  works,  and  there  is  no  fire 
department.  These  are  modern  innovations  unknown 
in  Western  Mexican  towns.  But,  generally  speaking, 
fire  departments  are  unnecessary,  for  the  better 
classes  of  houses  are  not  very  combustible,  being 
constructed  of  stone  or  brick  and  mortar,  and  the 
poorer  houses  are  not  worth  saving  should  fire  break 
out  amongst  them. 

All  of  the  better  class  of  buildings  have  a patio  and 
are  usually  one  story  high,  though  occasionally  two 
stories.  The  windows  opening  upon  the  street  are 
barred  with  heavy  iron,  like  the  windows  of  a prison, 
while  second-story  windows  usually  have  small  bal- 
conies in  front  of  them. 

The  bars  on  the  street  windows  are  not  to  keep 


50  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


people  in,  but  to  keep  them  out.  Every  one  told  us 
that  nothing  was  safe  anywhere  from  thievery,  though 
I did  not  lose  one  single  article  while  in  Mexico.  I 
heeded  the  warnings  that  were  constantly  sounded 
in.  my  ears,  however,  and  kept  everything  of  mine, 
that  might  be  filched,  chained  down  or  constantly 
under  my  eye,  and  perhaps  that  is  why  none  of  my 
goods  and  chattels  was  stolen.  I heard  of  cases  where 
beds  were  robbed  of  blankets  by  means  of  poles,  with 
hooks  attached,  which  were  inserted  between  the 
window  bars.  It  is  the  custom  of  employers  to  search 
their  servants  for  concealed  articles  whenever  the 
latter  leave  the  premises.  Guns,  ammunition,  jewelry, 
and  fancy  articles  are  taken  in  preference  to  money. 

Shortly  after  two  o’clock  the  mozos  brought  our 
horses  around,  and  without  waiting  for  the  pack 
mules  to  accompany  us,  we  rode  out  of  town,  on  a wide 
road  that  leads  to  the  eastward.  For  a short  dis- 
tance the  country  was  comparatively  open,  and  cul- 
tivated fields  lay  about  us.  But  soon  a turn  took  us 
into  a pasture,  and  our  King’s  Highway  dropped  down 
to  a simple  bridle  path  and  finally  became  a broken 
trail,  ascending  the  valley  of  the  Santiago  Rio. 

We  still  had  fifteen  miles  to  ride  before  reaching 
the  Hacienda  San  Nicolas.  Fifteen  miles  is  not  far 
when  one  has  a good  road,  and  one’s  horses  are  fresh; 
but  with  tired  horses,  on  a trail  that  runs  through  mud 
and  over  rocks,  in  a broiling  sun,  when  one  is  weary 
and  sore  in  every  limb  from  unaccustomed  riding,  it 
seems  an  endless  journey. 

Sometimes  we  rode  close  to  the  bank,  and  had 
magnificent  views  of  the  river,  reaching  far  away  to 
the  mountains.  Huge  alligators  sunned  themselves 


A water  pcdler 


The  ferry  at  the  Caimonaro 


THE  SANTIAGO  RIVER  TRAIL 


51 


on  the  sandy  beaches  across  the  stream.  Many  of 
these  reptiles  were  ten  or  twelve  feet  long.  The  large 
ones  are  a menace  to  calves,  which  come  down  with 
the  herds  to  drink. 

During  the  rainy  season  the  Rio  Santiago  sometimes 
breaks  over  its  banks  and  inundates  large  sections 
of  the  lower  elevations  of  the  valley.  It  is  seven 
hundred  miles  in  length,  and,  next  to  the  Fuerte 
River  of  Sinaloa,  which  is  not  so  long  but  carries  a 
greater  volume  of  water,  is  the  largest  and  most  im- 
portant river  wholly  within  the  boundaries  of  Mexico. 
With  its  main  source  in  the  mountains  of  Northern 
Guanajuato,  it  flows  through  the  beautiful  Lake 
Chapala,  crosses  the  State  of  Jalisco,  breaks  out 
through  the  canyons  of  the  Sierra  de  Nayarit,  and  fer- 
tilizes and  waters  a long  stretch  of  the  rich  bottom 
lands  of  Tepic  Territory  before  it  finally  reaches  the 
sea  at  San  Bias.  Though  it  is  wide  and  generally  shal- 
low below  the  mountains,  during  five  or  six  months 
of  the  year  flat-bottomed  boats  and  canoes  of  from 
three  to  five  tons  burden  may  navigate  it  to  a dis- 
tance seventy  miles  from  its  mouth.  The  soil  of  the 
valley  is  a rich,  dark  loam,  and  where  the  river  had 
undermined  its  banks  at  the  high  points  we  could  see 
a depth  of  from  fifteen  to  twenty  feet  above  the  clay 
or  gravel  substrata. 

The  vegetation  was  dense,  and  to  our  unfamiliar 
eyes  strange  and  wonderful.  Trees  were  festooned 
with  innumerable  flowering  vines,  brilliant  in  color, 
and  of  fragrant  perfume,  which  grew  in  amazing  pro- 
fusion. A thousand  varieties  of  trees  and  plants 
that  we  did  not  recognize  closed  in  our  narrow  trail, 
and  in  and  out  amongst  them  darted  gorgeous-colored 


52  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


parrots,  filling  the  air  with  their  discordant  screams, 
in  noisy  protest  against  our  invasion  of  their  retreat. 
Toward  sunset  we  crossed  two  rocky  ridges,  and  con- 
gratulated ourselves  upon  having  them  behind  us 
before  darkness  came. 

Randall’s  mount,  a rather  poor  one  and  somewhat 
advanced  in  years,  declined  finally  to  keep  pace  with 
the  others,  in  spite  of  applied  inspiration  in  the  shape 
of  spurs  and  quirt.  It  had  a gait,  too,  that  was  not 
conducive  to  reposeful  meditations  on  the  part  of  the 
rider.  Finally  Randall  dropped  out  of  sight,  and 
Gates  and  I turned  back  to  meet  him.  When  we  saw 
him  at  last,  working  every  inch  of  his  way,  Gates 
comforted  us  with  the  assurance  that  it  was  “only 
five  miles  farther  to  the  ranch  house,”  and  that  we 
were  already  on  the  Hacienda  San  Nicolas. 

Not  far  beyond  this  point  a small  river  known  as 
the  Caimonaro  (place  for  alligators)  empties  its  waters 
into  the  Santiago.  It  was  too  deep  to  ford,  and  we 
were  ferried  across  upon  a catamaran  by  an  Indian 
belonging  to  a settlement  upon  the  farther  shore. 

Here  we  met  an  Indian  runner  returning  from  the 
hacienda  house,  whom  Kaiser  had  despatched  from 
Santiago  upon  our  arrival  there,  to  advise  the  people 
that  we  were  coming.  In  a rough  country,  or  where 
the  trails  are  bad,  these  runners  will  far  outdistance 
a mounted  man.  Later  in  my  journey  I saw  them  in 
the  high  sierras.  They  have  remarkable  endurance, 
and  seem  tireless.  They  are  the  descendants  of  those 
men  who,  with  telegraphic  rapidity,  kept  Montezuma 
so  well  informed  of  the  happenings  throughout  his 
domain,  and  through  whom  he  so  quickly  learned  of 
the  landing  of  the  Spaniards  at  Vera  Cruz. 


THE  SANTIAGO  RIVER  TRAIL 


53 


The  sun  was  setting  when  we  met  the  runner,  and 
in  an  incredibly  short  time  darkness  was  upon  us.  I 
had  read  a great  deal  of  the  sunsets  of  Mexico,  and 
while  some  of  them  were  of  entrancing  beauty,  they 
disappointed  me.  The  refraction  was  of  too  brief 
duration,  with  scarcely  any  time  perceptible  between 
the  going  of  the  sun  and  the  coming  of  darkness. 
They  do  not  compare  with  the  glory  and  wonder  of 
color  that  I have  witnessed  amongst  the  lakes  of  the 
interior  plateau  of  Labrador.  But  no  sunsets  in  the 
world  can  compare  with  those  of  Labrador,  where  they 
reach  the  very  height  of  color  perfection,  with  long 
duration. 

Through  mud  and  mire,  through  dark  bits  of  woods 
and  across  arroyos,  we  picked  our  way  in  the  darkness, 
until  finally  Gates,  who  was  ahead,  called  back  to  us, 
“See  that  light?  That’s  the  house.” 

It  was  welcome,  indeed.  Weary  with  our  two  days 
in  the  saddle  under  a burning  sun,  the  cheery  light 
was  like  a harbor  beacon  to  a sailor  entering  port 
after  a tempestuous  voyage.  As  we  rode  through 
the  high  doorway  and  dismounted,  a swarthy  native 
youth,  clad  in  white,  was  setting  a table,  spread  with 
a snowy  cloth,  on  the  patio  veranda,  a delicious  odor 
of  coffee  and  savory  cooking  pervaded  the  atmosphere, 
and  a feeling  of  contentment  and  rest  stole  over  us. 

The  luxury  of  a bath,  an  excellent  meal,  a cigar, 
and  an  hour’s  pleasant  chat,  followed  by  a comfortable 
bed,  stamped  the  Hacienda  San  Nicolas  upon  our 
memory  as  a haven  of  rest  and  good  cheer. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A LOOK  AT  THE  INDIANS 

THE  following  morning  I had  opportunity  to 
explore  at  leisure  our  immediate  surroundings. 
The  house  was  built  after  the  prevailing  style 
of  architecture,  forming  a hollow  square,  with  a patio 
in  the  centre.  It  had  but  one  story,  and  was  con- 
structed of  brick  and  adobe,  the  walls  ponderously 
thick,  the  roof  of  tile,  the  floors  of  red  brick,  the  door 
to  the  patio  massive  white  mahogany  and  fastened 
with  iron  bars.  Loopholes,  now  plugged  with  mortar, 
formerly  punctured  the  outer  walls,  and  gave  evidence 
that  the  building  was  originally  designed  for  defence 
against  Indians  or  brigands.  The  rooms  opened  upon 
a covered  veranda  that  faced  the  patio,  which  was 
planted  with  trees  and  shrubs.  On  the  east  side  of 
the  patio  lay  the  kitchen,  the  servants’  quarters,  and 
the  hacienda  store,  on  the  north  was  the  main  entrance, 
and  on  the  west  a door  leading  to  a corral. 

Behind  the  house  was  a gently  rising  hill,  and  along 
its  base,  adjoining  the  enclosed  grounds,  stretched  a 
short  street  lined  with  the  miserable  Indian  huts  that 
we  had  become  so  familiar  with  on  our  inland  journey. 
Women  were  busily  engaged  in  grinding  corn,  or,  with 
big  clay  bottles  balanced  upon  their  heads,  were 
bringing  home  the  day’s  supply  of  water  from  a 
neighboring  brook.  These  bottles  held  from  three  to 
five  gallons  each,  and  were  carried  without  the  aid 
of  the  hands  to  balance  them. 

54 


A LOOK  AT  THE  INDIANS 


55 


Men  lounged  about  in  white  cotton  pajamas,  and 
most  of  them  wore  the  zerape  wrapped  around  their 
shoulders,  with  one  end  thrown  back  over  the  left 
shoulder.  The  women  wore  a scarf  (reboso)  over  their 
heads,  crossed  under  the  chin,  and  the  ends  thrown 
back  over  their  shoulders.  Both  the  wromen  and  men 
were  barefooted,  or  wore  only  sandals,  which  is  the 
prevailing  fashion  in  footgear  among  the  peon  class. 
The  men’s  white  pajamas  were  all  remarkably  clean. 
I might  say  that  they  were  cleaner  and  neater  in 
appearance  here  than  in  any  other  part  of  Mexico 
I visited.  The  women  were  not  so  clean,  and  were 
anything  but  good-looking.  Nowhere  in  Mexico  did 
our  observations  bear  out  the  statement  of  one 
author,  who  says  of  them: 

"There  are  thousands  of  pretty  faces  of  richest 
color,  long  lashes,  soft  and  downy  ear  locks,  black  as 
jet,  and  with  long,  inky  black  hair.  Under  the  tapalo 
or  reboso  is  many  a Venus.” 

They  have  the  color  of  most  Indians,  and  the  hair 
is  not  soft  and  downy,  but  coarse  and  stiff.  No  en- 
chanting ones  did  we  see  under  a tapalo  or  reboso,  and 
we  finally  resigned  the  expectation  of  finding  beauty 
enshrined  there  as  hopeless.  The  Venuses  are  beings 
of  the  author’s  fancy  and  not  of  reality. 

There  were  two  or  three  distinct  types  to  be  seen 
amongst  the  people  of  the  village.  None  of  them,  I 
might  say,  resembled  our  Indians  of  the  North.  One 
type  particularly  suggested  the  Semitic.  Amongst 
these,  in  the  case  of  the  men,  the  hair  and  beard  were 
often  curly,  though  always  coarse  and  black.  It  is 
possible,  though  not  probable,  this  characteristic  was 
introduced  by  Spanish  Hebrews.  Not  probable,  be- 


56  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


cause  in  the  early  days  of  Spanish  occupancy  Hebrews 
did  not  penetrate  to  these  inland  points,  and  they 
have  never  at  any  time  since  settled  amongst  the 
Indians  of  Western  Mexico.  To-day  there  are  a very 
few  in  Tepic  City,  but  none  nearer. 

Nearly  every  one  appeared  to  be  suffering  from 
calentura  (malarial  fever),  and,  indeed,  it  is  a wonder 
these  peons  do  not  have  a continual  scourge  of  typhoid 
and  yellow  fever  as  well,  in  view  of  the  unsanitary 
conditions  that  exist,  and  their  utter  disregard  of  the 
simplest  precautions.  Poor  little  youngsters  were  cry- 
ing with  fever,  and  some  of  them  lay  upon  the  ground 
too  sick  to  move,  as  we  stepped  over  them.  I saw  one 
or  two  that  I thought  at  first  were  dead.  They  get 
little  or  no  care,  and  a great  many  of  them  do  die, 
and  are  apparently  forgotten  at  once  by  the  parents. 
But  then  there  are  plenty  of  new  ones  that  come  to 
take  the  places  of  those  that  die. 

Eighty-seven  per  cent  of  the  children  born  in  Mexico, 
I was  informed  upon  good  authority,  are  illegitimate. 
It  would  be  quite  impossible  for  the  people  of  any 
land  to  have  less  regard  for  sexual  purity  than  have 
the  peons  of  Mexico.  No  obloquy  is  attached  to  the 
parents  of  illegitimate  children  and  no  shame  follows 
children  born  out  of  wedlock.  The  conditions  are 
these:  The  Mexican  Government  looks  upon  marriage 
as  a purely  civil  contract,  and,  for  reasons  deemed 
sufficient,  declines  to  recognize  as  binding  any  cere- 
mony performed  by  others  than  duly  authorized 
officials.  The  Church  teaches  her  people,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  marriage  is  a religious  union,  and  can  there- 
fore be  consummated  only  by  a priest  of  the  Church; 
that  the  civil  marriage  alone  is  not  binding  and  entails 


A LOOK  AT  THE  INDIANS 


57 


no  moral  obligation.  The  priest  charges  six  pesos  or 
more  to  perform  the  ceremony,  the  Government  six, 
and  as  twelve  pesos  is  an  amount  that  most  peons 
never  in  their  life  possess  at  any  one  time,  and  as 
neither  form  of  marriage  is  in  itself  considered  suffi- 
cient, the  majority  do  not  get  married  at  all,  but  the 
men  and  women  simply  go  and  live  together.  This 
condition  blots  out  any  sense  of  moral  obligation,  and 
the  result  is  inevitable  — moral  and  physical  degen- 
eracy. 

A European  gentleman  of  long  residence  in  Mexico, 
in  discussing  the  subject  with  me,  declared  that  ninety- 
five  per  cent  of  the  people  are  diseased  to  a greater 
or  less  extent.  I repeated  this  to  one  of  the  leading 
physicians  of  Mexico,  and  he  promptly  stamped  it 
as  a gross  libel  upon  the  country.  “No,”  said  he, 
“only  eighty  per  cent  are  afflicted.  That,  of  course,” 
he  added,  “is  a conservative  estimate.  There  may  be 
a few  more,  but  not  ninety-five  per  cent.”  I should 
say,  however,  that  even  this  reduced  estimate  appears 
excessive.  Physicians  are  often  too  prone  to  limit 
their  observations  to  that  portion  of  a population  who 
require  their  assistance,  and  it  is  natural,  therefore, 
for  them  to  overestimate  the  prevalence  of  disease. 

There  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  Aztecs  were 
a virtuous  and  industrious  people  before  the  advent 
of  the  Spaniard.  True,  they  had  their  bloody  sacri- 
fices, but  were  they  more  bloody,  or  a hundredth  part 
so  inhuman  in  their  execution  as  the  tortures  of  the 
Inquisition?  Were  the  Aztecs  really  not  farther  ad- 
vanced in  civilization  than  the  Christian  conquerors 
who,  by  force  of  sword  and  blood,  placed  the  Cross 
in  the  temple  of  the  deposed  Quetzalcoatl?  When  I 


58  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


was  in  Mexico  City  an  educated  and  patriotic  Mexican, 
in  whose  veins  flows  Aztec  blood,  remarked  of  the 
Spaniards:  “They  robbed  us  of  our  land  and  our 
homes,  they  debauched  our  women,  they  murdered 
our  sons,  they  taught  us  to  be  lazy  and  proud; 
and  all  they  left  us  as  a heritage  was  the  priest, 
the  prostitute,  and  the  bull  ring.”  President  Diaz 
and  his  compatriots,  who  are  establishing  schools  and 
trying  to  educate  the  populace  to  better  things,  are 
doing  nobly,  but  they  have  a Herculean  task  to  per- 
form, with  the  influence  of  nearly  three  centuries  of 
occupation  by  Spanish  adventurers  to  overcome. 

As  I passed  down  from  the  settlement,  upon  a path 
leading  under  the  rear  wall  of  the  hacienda  buildings, 
I took  a snapshot  of  two  of  the  women  water-carriers. 
I had  to  do  this  by  stealth,  concealing  myself  behind 
a clump  of  bushes,  for  nearly  all  of  the  Indians  feared 
my  camera  as  a new  sort  of  gun.  On  this  occasion 
the  women  saw  me  just  as  I pressed  the  button,  and 
they  all  but  dropped  their  water  jugs,  gaining  their 
equilibrium  only  when  they  saw  me  train  the  camera 
in  another  direction. 

Several  horses  and  mules  were  enclosed  in  the  corral, 
and  as  I walked  amongst  them  I was  struck  by  their 
docility.  From  what  I had  read  of  Mexican  steeds  I 
had  always  supposed  they  were  high-strung,  vicious 
beasts,  but  my  observation  of  them  here  and  every- 
where else  disabused  me  of  this  conception.  On  the 
contrary,  they  are  the  best  behaved,  most  patient, 
enduring,  and  well  trained  of  animals.  All  of  the 
horses  are  good  cow  chasers,  and  are  bridle  wise  — 
that  is,  answer  the  touch  of  the  rein  upon  the  neck. 

The  people  are  universally  splendid  riders.  They 


Water  carriers 


Canoe  dug  out  from  a single  log,  capable  of  carrying  six  thousand  pounds 


A LOOK  AT  THE  INDIANS 


59 


carry  themselves  gracefully,  like  our  cowboys  of  the 
Western  States,  and  you  never  see  amongst  them  the 
bob-up-and-down,  ridiculous,  riding  academy  style  that 
is  so  prevalent  in  our  city  parks. 

Among  the  fowls  were  some  beautiful  domesti- 
cated pheasants  (pheasants  are  quite  plentiful  here  in 
the  wild  state).  They  mixed  with  the  hens,  and  that 
they  had  inbred  with  them,  some  ludicrous  looking 
half-breeds,  with  the  body  of  the  hen  and  head  and 
long  tail  of  the  pheasant,  bore  evidence.  The  pheas- 
ants were  tame,  and  had  no  inclination  apparently  to 
revert  to  the  wild  state. 

A white-tailed  deer  — a spiked  buck  — attracted  my 
attention  by  giving  me  a poke  in  the  back  with  his 
horns.  I gave  him  the  petting  he  demanded,  and  a 
handful  of  salt,  which  he  ate  with  avidity.  He  came 
on  the  patio  veranda  later,  when  we  were  at  table,  and 
demanded  more  salt.  White-tailed  deer  are  numer- 
ous. This  one  was  found  when  a little  fawn  and  was 
raised  by  Gates  and  Kaiser.  On  several  occasions  he 
was  seen  trying  to  induce  does,  whose  acquaintance  he 
made  in  the  bush,  to  accompany  him  home;  but  their 
timidity  always  got  the  better  of  them  when  they 
neared  the  house,  and  to  the  disgust  of  Blanco,  the 
tame  buck,  they  fled  to  cover.  Sometimes  he  met 
other  bucks  back  in  the  wilderness,  and  that  battles 
royal  were  the  result  his  numerous  wounds  bore  ample 
proof. 

A few  days  after  this  on  which  I made  Blanco’s 
acquaintance,  he  came  to  an  untimely  end  through 
his  absolute  faith  in  the  friendship  of  men.  Kaiser 
was  at  home  alone" at  the  time,  and  had  laid  out 
some  onion  sets  to  put  in  the  ground.  Blanco  happen- 


60  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


ing  around,  and  believing  that  all  things  good  were 
intended  for  his  pleasure,  consumed  the  onion  sets. 
Unfortunately  for  Blanco,  Kaiser  came  upon  him  as 
he  was  devouring  the  last  set  with  unfeigned  relish, 
and  in  a fit  of  anger  drew  his  gun  and  killed  instantly 
the  pet  deer  which  he  had  fed  on  a bottle  when  it  was 
a helpless  baby  fawn,  and  which  had  learned  to  love 
and  confide  in  him  and  look  to  him  for  protection. 
But  it  was  just  as  well,  perhaps,  for  Blanco  was  reach- 
ing an  age  when  he  would  have  been  a menace  to  the 
lives  of  children. 

I saw  several  of  these  white-tailed  deer  later,  at 
mountain  cabins,  where  they  were  the  pets  and  the 
autocrats  of  the  house.  Usually  they  were  unrestrained 
and  at  liberty  to  roam  at  will,  but  occasionally  one 
was  chained  to  keep  it  safe  from  dogs,  or  from  attack- 
ing inoffensive  people. 

After  dinner  our  horses  were  brought  around  and 
we  rode  forth  under  the  guidance  of  the  managing 
mozo  of  the  hacienda,  Serapio  Ballestrado  by  name, 
to  inspect  the  adjacent  rubber  forests.  Serapio  was  a 
splendid  specimen  of  physical  perfection,  self-reliant, 
and,  in  marked  contrast  to  the  average  Mexican, 
active  and  aggressive.  We  soon  became  friends,  and 
I learned  that  he  had  spent  several  years  in  California 
and,  as  a cowboy,  in  Texas.  During  his  residence  in 
the  United  States  he  had  acquired  a fair  speaking 
knowledge  of  the  English  language,  and  this  enabled 
me  to  converse  with  him  and  glean  from  him  a good 
deal  of  information  about  Mexico  and  the  people, 
which  I should  otherwise  have  been  denied. 

Besides  being  managing  mozo  of  the  Hacienda  San 
Nicolas,  Serapio  is  a sort  of  judicial  officer  for  the  sur- 


A LOOK  AT  THE  INDIANS 


61 


rounding  territory,  where  he  is  looked  upon  by  the 
peons  as  a chief.  His  self-reliance  and  decisive  man- 
ner are  doubtless  hereditary,  and  have  been  handed 
down  to  him  with  his  caste  from  the  days  before  the 
Conquest.  Here,  in  these  more  or  less  remote  sections 
of  the  country,  the  caste  of  those  days  has  not  been 
altogether  eliminated.  When  I looked  at  him  I 
involuntarily  thought  of  the  patriots  who  fought  so 
hopelessly  and  vainly  by  the  side  of  Guatemozin  for 
the  preservation  of  their  freedom  and  their  homes, 
and  I easily  pictured  him  as  one  of  them.  Miguel,  one 
of  the  mozos  who  met  us  at  San  Bias,  is  his  son. 

Out  through  fields  of  para  grass,  wild  pineapple,  and 
corn-fields  with  weeds  higher  than  the  horses’  backs, 
and  flowers  blooming  everywhere,  we  rode  into  the 
forest  for  a short  distance,  Serapio  using  his  machete 
to  cut  away  branches  that  blocked  the  trail.  Here 
were  many  large  rubber  trees  tapped  for  the  gum,  and 
several  hundred  young  trees  recently  set  out  and  under 
cultivation.  Rubber  culture  in  this  section  is  in  its 
infancy,  and  whether  it  will  pay  or  not  I cannot  say. 
Personally  I am  sceptical.  However,  the  old  trees 
yield  a good  quality  of  rubber,  and  are  well  worth 
attention. 

Some  of  the  other  forest  trees  noticed  were  the  zebas, 
a large  tree,  of  quick  growth,  but  punky  and  of  no  com- 
mercial value;  the  amata,  or  white  mahogany,  not 
plentiful;  a very  few  tampaziran,  or  rosewood;  tipa- 
gopta,  numerous  and  large;  the  guanacastl,  a very 
large  tree,  of  quick  growth,  utilized  by  the  natives  for 
making  dugout  canoes;  and  the  capoma,  also  numer- 
ous, a large  tree,  the  leaves  and  berries  of  which  are 
greedily  eaten  by  cattle. 


62  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


We  made  a swing  out  of  the  timber  into  the  open 
range,  where  long-horned  cattle  grazed,  and  through 
pineapple  and  ripened  corn-fields  down  to  the  Caimon- 
aro,  hoping  that  here  we  might  meet  the  canoes  from 
San  Bias  that  were  to  bring  up  our  surplus  baggage 
and  Emerson’s  pigs;  but  they  were  not  there  and  did 
not  come  until  late  at  night. 

At  the  Caimonaro  a native  carpenter  was  engaged 
in  transforming  immense  logs  of  the  guanacastl  tree 
into  huge  dugout  canoes.  I measured  one  of  these 
partly  finished  canoes,  and  found  it  to  be  thirty-eight 
feet  long,  with  a beam  of  five  feet  two  inches,  and 
Serapio  told  me  it  would  carry  twenty  cargoes,  that 
is,  as  much  as  twenty  mules  could  pack.  A mule’s 
cargo  is  three  hundred  pounds. 

The  Government  demands  a tax  on  every  canoe  or 
craft  of  any  description  floated  upon  the  inland  water- 
ways. If  you  own  a small  canoe  for  pleasure  or  any 
purpose,  and  use  it,  you  must  pay  your  tax  or  have 
your  boat  confiscated.  This  tax  is  not  levied  for  the 
purpose  of  aiding  to  pay  the  expense  of  keeping  the 
streams  in  a navigable  condition,  or  even  remotely 
applied  to  their  betterment.  Very  few  of  the  Mexican 
rivers  are  navigable,  except  for  canoes  and  flat-bot- 
tomed boats,  and  the  Government  expends  no  money 
on  them.  The  tax  is  simply  a means  of  obtaining 
revenue,  and  no  possible  means  of  securing  revenue 
is  overlooked  in  Mexico.  If  you  want  beef,  and 
butcher  one  of  your  own  steers,  you  must  pay  a tax 
for  the  privilege  of  doing  it. 

Serapio  placed  the  carpenter  who  was  working  on 
the  canoe,  and  a group  of  children,  in  position  for  me 
to  photograph.  Some  of  the  children  were  naked, 


A LOOK  AT  THE  INDIANS 


63 


but  we  had  them  draped  for  the  occasion.  In  the 
group  I noticed  two  or  three  of  the  youngsters  who 
bore  unmistakable  marks  of  foreign  influence,  and  was 
told  that  they  were  the  children  of  a German  who 
had  spent  some  time  in  the  neighborhood  some  years 
before.  One  of  the  little  girls  manifested  considerable 
interest  in  me,  and  prattled  to  me  fearlessly.  I gave 
her  a few  centavos  in  appreciation,  and  though  neither 
could  understand  the  other,  we  immediately  became 
great  friends. 

On  our  return  to  the  ranch  house  in  the  evening  we 
passed  near  a hill  standing  a little  way  back  of  the  river. 
Emerson,  pointing  to  it,  remarked: 

"That  is  the  famous  Treasure  Hill,  or,  as  the  natives 
call  it,  ‘El  Cerro  del  Tesoro.’  There ’s  an  interesting 
legend  about  it,  and  lately  some  remarkable  revelations 
tend  to  confirm  the  truth  of  the  story.  It ’s  a tale  of 
the  Spanish  occupation,  the  gold  hunters,  the  revo- 
lution, and  murder,  with  a present-day  attempt  to 
unravel  the  truth  of  it.  Would  you  like  to  hear  it?” 

Of  course  I wanted  to  hear  it,  and  Emerson  related 
it  to  me  as  we  rode  along. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  TREASURE  HILL 

“"V  -W  THEN  the  Conquest  was  at  an  end,”  began 
%/V/  Emerson,  “and  every  chief  and  tribe  that 
’ * had  not  been  put  to  the  sword  was  bowed 
by  the  fear  of  it  in  humble  submission  before  the 
Cross,  with  a broken  heart  in  each  man’s  breast  and 
chains  of  slavery  upon  his  ankles,  when  peace  and 
tranquillity  at  last  reigned  in  Mexico,  and  the  Spanish 
adventurer  found  himself  free  to  roam  without  danger 
of  molestation,  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  search 
for  gold.  He  scoured  every  mountain  fastness,  every 
crag  and  canyon,  every  river  bed  and  isolated  hill  of 
the  Cordilleras,  and  even  the  lower  plains,  for  hidden 
deposits  of  the  precious  metal.  From  San  Bias  he 
swept  up  the  valley  of  the  Santiago  River,  and  at 
Treasure  Hill,  the  legend  says,  uncovered  a rich  de- 
posit. 

“Immediately  a mine  was  opened,  Indian  slaves 
cleared  the  jungle,  a village  was  built  under  the  shadow 
of  the  hill,  and  a few  hundred  yards  away,  upon  the 
banks  of  the  river,  a rastra  was  erected  for  the  grinding 
of  the  ore. 

“The  mine  at  Treasure  Hill  once  opened  and  in 
active  operation,  the  same  band  of  adventurers  pushed 
inland  toward  the  Cordilleras,  and  again  met  with 
success  in  what  they  called  the  Laborosa,  a mountain 
fastness  twenty-five  miles  from  Treasure  Hill,  and 

64 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  TREASURE  HILL  65 


within  the  present  boundaries  of  the  Hacienda  San 
Nicolas.  This  new  mine  proved  to  be  rich  beyond 
the  'wildest  dreams  of  avarice/  as  they  say.  The  trails 
leading  up  from  Treasure  Hill  to  the  Laborosa  were 
exceedingly  rough,  and  the  mine  almost  inaccessible 
for  heavily  laden  mule  trains.  The  transportation  of 
supplies  by  any  other  method  was  impossible,  and  it 
was  found  necessary  to  build  a road,  to  connect  the 
two  mines.  Slaves  were  put  at  work,  and  in  a little 
while  gulches  were  bridged  by  massive  stone  arches, 
the  sides  of  canyons  were  cut  away,  and  what  was 
really  a marvellous  feat  of  engineering  was  accom- 
plished. 

"Long  trains  of  supplies  began  to  move  inland  to 
the  mine,  and  for  two  hundred  years  the  Laborosa 
poured  yellow  metal  to  Treasure  Hill,  whence  it  was 
forwarded  to  the  fortified  vaults  at  San  Bias,  to  be 
despatched  at  leisure  to  Spain.  It  was  a mine  of 
marvellous  riches. 

"Finally  the  revolution  came,  and  brought  disaster 
to  the  Spaniards,  and  they  were  forced  to  flee  the 
country.  A large  amount  of  gold,  run  into  ingots, 
was  at  the  Laborosa  and  Treasure  Hill  mines  when  the 
order  came  to  retreat.  San  Bias  was  evacuated,  and 
it  was  no  longer  safe  to  attempt  to  move  the  metal 
across  the  mountains;  but  with  sanguine  expectations 
of  finally  conquering  the  revolutionary  army,  and  re- 
occupying the  country,  the  ingots  from  the  Laborosa 
were  rushed  down  to  Treasure  Hill,  all  the  metal  of 
both  mines,  to  the  value  of  many  millions  of  pesos, 
it  is  said,  was  hidden  in  the  Treasure  Hill  mine,  the 
entrance  of  the  mine  closed  and  concealed,  the  build- 
ings destroyed,  and  every  Indian  slave  who  had  been 


66  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


employed  in  the  work,  or  who  would  be  likely  to  know 
of  the  concealed  gold,  was  killed. 

“The  army  of  the  revolution  conquered  and  the 
Spaniards  never  returned.  Neighboring  Indians  who 
had  watched  the  final  work  of  the  Spaniards,  com 
ceived  a superstitious  dread  of  the  abandoned  mines 
and  avoided  the  locality.  Three  or  four  short  years 
sufficed  the  jungle  to  effectually  cover  all  traces  of  the 
village  at  Treasure  Hill  and  the  road  to  the  Laborosa, 
and  only  a legend  of  their  existence  remained.  From 
that  day  Treasure  Mountain  has  been  called  by  the 
natives  ‘El  Cerro  del  Tesoro’  — The  Lock  of  the 
Treasure  — and  the  story  has  been  handed  down 
from  father  to  son. 

“Five  years  ago,  two  Americans  appeared  at  the 
Hacienda  San  Nicolas  with  charts  of  Treasure  Hill 
and  the  hidden  mine.  These  charts  they  said  they 
had  obtained  from  an  old  Spanish  priest  in  California, 
who  told  them  they  had  been  given  him  by  another 
Spanish  priest,  who  was  one  of  the  last  to  leave  the 
mine.  The  two  men  searched  the  hill  for  days,  but 
finding  no  trace  of  the  mine  or  buildings  decided  it 
wras  all  a hoax,  and  returned  home. 

“The  next  act  in  the  drama  was  the  arrival  of  Gates 
as  manager  of  the  hacienda  after  our  company  pur- 
chased it.  The  story  was  told  to  Gates  and  his  curi- 
osity was  aroused.  An  aged  Indian  declared  to  him 
that  one  day,  many,  many  years  ago,  he  was  working 
near  Treasure  Hill  and  cut  himself  badly  with  his 
machete.  He  plunged  down  through  the  jungle,  in 
haste  to  reach  his  cabin,  to  have  his  wound  dressed, 
and  in  his  flight  unexpectedly  came  upon  the  closed 
entrance  of  the  mine.  He  was  in  too  great  pain  to 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  TREASURE  HILL  67 


stop  to  examine  it  then,  and  too  agitated  to  mark 
accurately  its  location.  Later  he  returned  and 
searched  for  it,  but  never  could  find  it. 

“Gates  put  a gang  of  mozos  to  work  clearing  the  jungle 
about  the  hill.  It  was  tedious  work,  for  the  growth 
was  heavy,  and  just  as  he  had  decided  the  whole 
thing  a legend  without  basis,  and  not  worth  further 
effort,  the  stone  foundations  of  several  buildings  were 
uncovered.  The  search  was  continued,  but  with  no 
further  results  at  that  time. 

“Thomas  Farmen,  an  old  prospector  from  Colorado, 
now  appeared.  He  heard  the  story,  and  at  once  bent 
his  attention  to  the  location  of  the  Laborosa  mine. 
After  weeks  of  hard  work  in  the  overrun  jungle,  he 
found  a trace  of  the  old  road.  This  he  followed  for 
several  miles,  discovering  ruined  bridges  of  massive 
stone-work,  and  cuts  along  the  walls  of  almost  im- 
passable canyons.  But  Tommy’s  grubstake  failed 
him,  and  he  had  to  abandon  his  efforts  temporarily. 

“A  little  later  one  more  discovery  was  made.  Three 
or  four  months  ago  Gates  had  some  men  at  work  near 
the  river  bank,  in  a direct  line  from  the  foundations 
discovered  at  Treasure  Hill,  and  lo!  they  excavated 
the  old  rastra  where  the  ore  was  milled  and  washed.” 

This  was  Emerson’s  interesting  and  romantic  story. 
It  so  excited  my  curiosity,  that  later  I visited  the 
ruins  of  the  old  rastra,  and  saw  them  myself. 

Tommy  Farmen  rode  in  one  day  while  I was  at 
the  hacienda,  and  spent  the  night  with  us.  He  told 
me  of  his  search  for  the  Laborosa  mine,  and  described 
to  me  vividly  the  road  he  had  found,  with  its  ruined 
bridges  and  cuts. 

“Them  bridges  and  that  road  were  built  for  some- 


68  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


thin’  rich,”  he  declared.  “Th’  stories  o’  that  old 
mine ’s  all  true,  an’  when  I gets  a grubstake  agin’  I’m 
goin’ t’  find  th’  damn  mine  or  bust.” 

I hope  it  will  not  be  “bust,”  but  the  mine  for  Tommy, 
and  that  it  will  be  everything  the  legends  say  it  is. 
Tommy  has  spent  his  life  hunting  for  gold,  and  several 
times  has  “struck  it  rich,”  but  always  he  was  too  free- 
handed and  too  trustful  of  others,  and  his  wealth 
slipped  from  him. 

There  are  some  valuable  mines  in  active  operation 
in  Tepic  Territory,  but  mining  has  not  received  the 
attention  here  that  it  has  had  elsewhere  in  Mexico, 
or  that  it  deserves.  Prospectors,  however,  are  begin- 
ning to  turn  their  attention  to  it.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  the  mountains  are  highly  mineralized,  but  silver 
is  the  metal  most  likely  to  be  found,  though  all  the 
legends  of  old  Spanish  or  Indian  mines  tell  of  gold. 
There  are  many  of  these  tales  to  be  heard  in  the  terri- 
tory, some  of  them  doubtless  with  foundation  of 
truth,  though  all  of  them  greatly  exaggerated. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


THE  INDIAN  AND  THE  LAND 

ONE  morning  soon  after  our  arrival  at  the 
Hacienda  San  Nicolas  we  rode  out  to  see  the 
laborers  at  work  in  the  bottom-land  fields,  and 
to  witness  the  mediaeval  farming  methods  still  in 
vogue.  Here  the  Indian  plants  and  harvests  his 
crops  just  as  his  ancestors  did  for  generations  upon 
generations  before  him,  and  the  time  and  labor  sav- 
ing machinery  invented  within  the  past  hundred 
years,  which  has  so  completely  revolutionized  farming 
in  civilized  lands,  has  never  supplanted  the  archaic 
implements  of  the  early  Spanish  days,  or  hand  work 
of  the  primitive  Indian. 

We  took  the  trail  early,  that  the  intense  heat  of 
the  tropical  midday  might  be  avoided.  It  was  a glori- 
ous morning.  The  air  was  soft  and  balmy,  and  fra- 
grant with  new-day  sweetness,  the  foliage  dripped 
with  moisture,  the  cloudless  sky  was  a delicate  opales- 
cent blue,  and  as  the  sun  flared  up  over  the  crests  of 
sapphire  and  emerald  hills  to  flood  the  world  with  its 
dazzling  light,  the  dew-drops  on  the  bushes  sparkled 
and  shimmered  like  a mass  of  exquisite  pearls. 

In  the  thick  growth  of  the  river  valley  through 
which  our  trail  led,  the  shrubs  and  even  the  higher 
trees  were  matted  and  festooned  with  a profusion 
of  wild  honeysuckle  and  morning-glories,  now  in  full 
bloom,  and  displaying  a hundred  shades  of  color. 

69 


70  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


These  morning-glories  are  a remarkable  production 
of  nature.  They  are  nearly  twice  as  large  as  our 
garden  varieties,  and  are  rich  and  velvety.  One  sees 
them  here  in  various  shades  of  red,  blue,  pink,  and 
yellow,  from  the  lightest  gold  to  the  deepest  orange, 
and  some  in  variegated  tints.  Matted  among  them 
were  garlands  of  the  honeysuckle,  and  brilliant  reds 
of  other  flowering  vines.  This  gorgeous  mass  of 
flowers  and  foliage  banked  our  trail  on  either  side 
and  stood  a full  half  hundred  feet  above  our  heads. 

The  atmosphere  was  charged  with  the  perfume  of 
sweet-smelling  blossoms,  the  forest  resounded  with  the 
marvellous  songs  of  the  mocking-bird,  and  a hundred 
unseen  warblers  vied  with  one  another  to  fill  the  world 
with  melody.  It  was  a wilderness  of  color,  of  music, 
and  sweet  scents  beyond  anything  I had  ever  pictured 
or  imagined.  Even  our  horses  seemed  to  feel  the 
inspiration  of  it,  and  our  two  dogs,  Capitan  and  Quien 
Sabe,  barked  joyously  as  they  dashed  ahead. 

These  dogs  were  two  big  native  animals  kept  at 
the  hacienda  as  watch-dogs,  and  were  trained  to  hunt 
the  jaguar,  which  occasionally  prowls  about  in  search 
of  calves.  Capitan  had  been  purchased  from  an 
Indian  a few  months  before,  and  previous  to  the  day 
he  was  brought  to  the  ranch  house  had  never  met  a 
white  man.  He  showed  at  once  a fine  discrimina- 
tion of  human  qualities.  He  went  immediately  to 
Gates  and  Kaiser  and  fawned  over  them  as  though 
they  were  his  real  masters,  showed  his  teeth  to  his  old 
Indian  owner,  and  thenceforth  declined  friendly  rela- 
tions with  all  natives.  He  is  now  the  stanch  friend 
of  the  white  man,  but  the  implacable  enemy  of  every 
Mexican,  and  many  of  the  latter  bear  his  teeth  marks. 


The  ploughman 


Jose,  our  waiter  — an  Indian  youth  of  twenty 


THE  INDIAN  AND  THE  LAND 


71 


He  chewed  a mozo’s  leg  pretty  badly  the  day  before 
our  arrival,  just  because  the  mozo  was  appropriating 
something  that  did  not  belong  to  him. 

The  Hacienda  San  Nicolas  is  a rather  small  ranch. 
It  contains  only  about  forty-five  thousand  acres,  or 
approximately  seventy-five  square  miles,  and  until 
recently  was  a part  of  the  large  landed  estate  of  a 
Mexican  hidalgo.  Its  lower  end  is  five  miles  below, 
or  to  the  westward  of  the  ranch  house,  and  it  runs 
eastward  twenty-five  miles  into  the  rugged  mountains 
of  the  Laborosa. 

Our  trail  carried  us  over  a small  eminence  and  down 
on  the  farther  side  to  a creek.  As  our  horses  splashed 
into  the  water  a huge  alligator  dashed  from  a sunny 
place  on  the  bank,  where  it  had  been  warming  itself, 
and  as  it  swam  away  the  waves  and  ripples,  created 
by  the  movement  of  its  great  tail,  marked  the  direc- 
tion it  took.  The  dogs  hesitated  a long  time  before 
venturing  into  the  stream,  for  they  instinctively  knew 
that  the  alligators  were  looking  for  just  such  dainty 
morsels  as  they;  but  when  we  ceased  calling  and 
coaxing  them  and  rode  away  on  the  opposite  side, 
they  took  a desperate  chance  and  followed  us. 

Just  beyond  the  creek  was  a clearing,  where  a mozo 
with  an  ox  team  was  ploughing  for  the  November  corn 
planting,  and  I swung  about  my  horse  and  snapped 
my  camera  upon  them  before  the  ploughman  was 
aware  of  what  I was  doing.  Nearly  all  my  pictures 
were  taken  from  horseback  or  mule  back,  for  the 
natives  were  so  timid  at  the  appearance  of  a camera 
it  would  often  have  been  impossible  to  photograph 
them  in  any  other  way.  At  first  on  several  occasions 
I dismounted  and  attempted  to  photograph  Indians 


72  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


from  the  ground,  but  so  frequently  it  happened  that 
the  object  of  my  interest  ran  away  before  I could  get 
my  camera  trained  upon  him,  I adopted  the  more 
stealthy  method  of  half  concealing  the  instrument 
and  taking  chances  from  the  saddle. 

The  plough  was  the  typical  Mexican  plough  and  was 
constructed  of  two  pieces  of  wood,  the  one  a long 
pole,  an  end  lashed  to  a cross  piece,  which  was  in  turn 
lashed  to  the  horns  of  the  oxen,  the  other  end  mortised 
into  another  stick  at  right  angles.  The  lower  end  of 
the  latter  stick,  fashioned  into  a curved  point,  served 
as  a ploughshare  for  stirring  the  earth,  the  upper  end 
as  a handle.  Not  a bit  of  iron,  not  even  a bolt  or  nail, 
was  used  in  its  making.  It  was  the  ancient  plough 
of  Egypt,  and  I can  safely  say  is  neither  patented  nor 
controlled  by  the  farm  implement  trust.  The  plough- 
man carried  a long,  sharp-pointed  pole  as  a goad  to  urge 
the  oxen  into  activity,  though  no  particular  activity, 
either  on  the  part  of  ploughman  or  oxen,  was  noticeable. 

"Everything  and  everybody,”  said  Emerson,  as 
we  passed  it,  "gets  like  that  ploughman  and  ox  team 
after  they  are  here  a little  while.  The  climate  seems 
to  sap  your  energy  away  and  you  don’t  know  when 
it  goes  nor  how  it  happens.  Americans  come  down  to 
Mexico  with  a great  bluster  of  impatience  at  the  slow- 
moving  people,  but  in  a little  while  they  find  that  it 
does  not  do  to  hurry  too  much,  and  they  learn  to  take 
their  midday  rest,  and  gradually  adopt  the  Mexican 
way. 

“It  is  so  with  all  animal  life.  Honey-bees,  for  in- 
stance, brought  from  the  North,  with  Northern  energy, 
will  work  as  though  their  life  depended  upon  it  for 
a few  months,  and  then  they  get  on  to  their  job. 


THE  INDIAN  AND  THE  LAND 


73 


They  learn  there ’s  no  winter  to  provide  for,  and  honey 
can  be  gathered  at  any  time,  and  after  that  they  just 
quit  work  and  loaf.  They  do  enough  to  feed  them- 
selves from  day  to  day,  and  the  rest  of  the  time  take 
it  easy  as  the  people  do.” 

It  was  harvest  time  for  corn,  and  in  the  fields  we 
rode  through,  men  were  husking  the  ears  from  stand- 
ing stalks  — which  they  do  not  cut  — and  throwing 
them  over  their  shoulders  into  baskets,  suspended  by 
shoulder  straps  in  some  instances,  and  by  tump  lines, 
with  the  forehead  strap,  in  others.  The  tump  line 
is  used  by  a good  many  of  them  for  carrying  burdens, 
just  as  it  is  by  the  Indian  voyageurs  in  the  Canadian 
wilderness. 

In  the  centre  of  the  corn-fields  natives  were  gathered 
around  baskets  shelling  the  grain  by  hand.  Shelling 
machines  have  never  been  introduced  into  this  part 
of  Mexico,  and  it  would  be  a hard  task  to  induce  the 
natives  to  use  them.  Gates  brought  down  some  hay 
forks  from  the  States,  but  the  natives  would  not 
adopt  them,  insisting  upon  using,  instead,  a crotched 
stick  which  they  cut  in  the  woods  such  as  they 
had  always  been  accustomed  to.  He  had  the  same 
experience  with  ox  yokes.  They  prefer  to  lash  the 
plough  beam  or  cart  pole  to  the  animal’s  horns,  after 
the  antiquated  fashion  which  the  Spaniards  taught 
them,  and  nothing  can  induce  them  to  adopt  new 
methods.  Gates  also  told  me  that  when  a nut  jarred 
loose,  or  any  little  accident  happened  to  a modern 
American  plough  he  had  brought  to  the  hacienda, 
the  natives  had  not  sufficient  ingenuity  to  adjust  or 
repair  it,  or,  having  a preconceived  dislike  for  innova- 
tions, would  not  try.  They  are  a most  conservative 


74  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


people,  who  believe  that  it  would  be  a sacrilege  to  do 
otherwise  than  as  their  forefathers  did,  and  that  the 
gringo’s  strange  new  devices  are  allied  to  the  devil. 

In  the  corn-fields,  where  the  grain  was  still  unhusked, 
the  tops  of  the  stalks  were  broken  down  to  protect 
the  ears,  so  far  as  possible,  from  thieving  birds. 
Nearly  every  stalk  held  two  large,  well-formed  ears. 
How  in  the  world  it  grows  to  such  perfection  with 
the  little  cultivation  it  receives,  is  a wonder  to  me. 
They  scratch  over  the  ground  with  their  antediluvian 
forked-stick  plough,  make  holes  with  a pointed  stick 
in  which  to  drop  the  corn  for  each  hill,  and  then  go 
home  and  say  prayers  for  a good  crop,  leaving  the 
rest  to  the  Lord.  I should  think  the  Lord  would 
require  a little  working  of  the  soil,  but  He  does  not 
seem  to.  Five  hundred  fold  is  not  an  unusual  return 
for  corn. 

All  clearing  of  fields  is  done  with  the  machete,  and 
it  is  remarkable  the  amount  of  brush  and  jungle  a 
native  can  go  through  in  a comparatively  short  time, 
and  what  large  trees  he  can  cut  away  with  the  big 
knife. 

A young  Indian,  stripped  to  the  waist,  was  working 
with  the  machete,  clearing  away  weeds  and  preparing 
a field  for  ploughing,  when  we  rode  into  it.  I reined 
in  my  horse  very  quietly  a little  way  from  him,  drew 
my  camera,  and  was  just  getting  the  focus  when  he 
glimpsed  me  from  the  corner  of  his  eye.  He  thought 
his  time  had  come,  and  with  a yell  he  sprang  into  the 
air  and  ran  like  a deer  into  the  weeds. 

Natives  are  always  willing  and  anxious  to  clear 
virgin  land  for  the  privilege  of  using  it  themselves  for 
one,  or,  where  covered  with  a very  heavy  jungle,  two 


THE  INDIAN  AND  THE  LAND 


75 


crops.  Corn  is  what  they  usually  plant,  and  two 
crops  of  corn  can  be  raised  in  one  year.  So  the  clear- 
ing of  land  costs  practically  nothing.  When  it  is 
cleared  and  under  cultivation,  native  labor  can  be 
had  for  an  average  of  fifty  centavos  a day.  Of  course 
with  the  increased  demand  for  labor  which  is  sure  to 
come  with  the  railroad  and  the  civilization  of  the 
country,  the  cost  of  labor  will  advance. 

The  Hacienda  San  Nicolas  contains  many  thousands 
of  acres  of  rich  bottom  land,  but  only  a small  part  of 
this  is  under  cultivation.  Some  corn,  beans,  cotton, 
bananas,  and  pineapples  make  the  sum  total  of  the 
crops.  There  are,  I believe,  about  a thousand  acres 
of  pineapples,  practically  in  the  wild  state,  but  with 
no  railroad  there  is  at  present  no  means  of  getting 
the  fruit  to  market.  Corn  can  always  be  marketed. 
Para  grass  grows  rank  and  heavy,  and  it  is  ideal  feed 
for  cattle. 

Cattle  bring,  on  the  premises,  thirty  to  forty  dollars 
a head.  They  run  over  the  hill  districts  and  moun- 
tains, where  herders  are  employed  to  watch  them, 
and  therefore  there  is  practically  no  expense  attached 
to  cattle-raising.  The  purchaser  buys  them  on  the 
hoof  where  they  range,  for  spot  cash,  and  drives  them 
away  himself.  No  attempt  has  been  made  to  improve 
the  stock.  One  sees  none  but  the  longhorn  here. 
There  are  only  enough  cows  kept  around  the  settle- 
ments to  furnish  milk  for  immediate  consumption 
and  with  which  to  make  native  cheese  for  use  of  the 
household.  Butter  is  unknown  in  Western  Mexico. 

The  vanilla  bean  is  grown  on  a very  small  scale, 
though  it  can  be  profitably  raised  and  requires  little 
attention, 


76  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


This  is  a summary  of  the  crops  raised  on  the 
Hacienda  San  Nicolas,  — practically  the  same  as  on 
the  Hacienda  Navarrete,  with  the  exception  of  tobacco, 
— and  it  is  typical  of  the  haciendas  of  a wide  section 
of  Western  Mexico.  Thousands  and  thousands  of 
rich  acres  lie  idle  and  overrun  by  the  jungle. 

Charles  Bigelow,  the  member  of  Emerson’s  party 
whom  I have  mentioned  as  a scientific  farmer,  is  to 
introduce  on  this  ranch  modern,  up-to-date  American 
methods.  He  is  getting  ready  for  the  railroad  which 
will  cross  the  property,  and  in  a little  while  a good  part 
of  the  jungle  will  be  put  under  cultivation  by  his 
efforts. 

We  crossed  several  good  streams,  and  I was  im- 
pressed with  the  naturally  well  watered  condition  of 
the  fields,  rendering  artificial  irrigation  ditches,  on 
the  whole,  unnecessary.  In  fact,  there  is  not  an 
irrigation  ditch  on  the  hacienda. 

The  larger  part  of  Tepic  Territory  is  well  watered, 
and  there  is  an  immense  amount  of  available  power 
on  the  numerous  streams,  when  need  for  its  use  arises. 
Some  day  it  will  doubtless  be  utilized  to  turn  the 
wheels  of  cotton  and  other  mills  to  work  up  the  product 
of  the  soil. 

Presently  we  began  to  climb  the  hills.  At  a lone 
cabin  we  halted  and  had  a drink  of  water  flavored 
with  wild  lime  juice,  and  a native  who  lived  there 
mounted  an  old  mule  and  rode  with  us  over  the  now 
rocky  and  steep  trail  to  the  hacienda  lime  kilns. 

These  kilns  have  been  operated  by  the  Indians 
for  centuries  to  manufacture  the  lime  used  for  tor- 
tillas. There  has  been  no  change  in  method  in  half 
a thousand  years.  The  lime  used  for  household  and 


THE  INDIAN  AND  THE  LAND 


77 


building  purposes  at  Santiago  Ixcuintla,  and  in  all  the 
surrounding  country,  is  produced  in  these  primitive 
quarries  and  kilns.  The  stone  is  of  good  quality,  and 
there  is  an  unlimited  quantity  of  it. 

From  the  lime  rock  hill  we  looked  down  upon  the 
fertile  valley  below,  lovely  and  beautiful  in  its  wild, 
uncultivated  state  — untamed,  primitive,  natural.  I 
was  almost  sorry  to  think  of  the  change  that  is  certain 
to  come  upon  it  within  the  next  decade,  when  the 
railroad  is  built  and  the  farmer  of  the  new  era  arrives 
to  rob  it  of  its  rugged,  primitive  grandeur.  It  was 
now  past  midday.  The  natives  had  gone  to  their 
siesta  an  hour  before,  and  an  indolent,  sleepy  haze 
that  told  of  intense  tropical  heat  softened  the  rich 
green  coloring  of  the  valley  below. 

The  Indian  village  of  Acatan  is  on  the  hacienda, 
and  three  other  groups  of  Indians,  differing  in  language, 
dress,  and  customs,  though  living  in  close  proximity 
to  one  another,  occupy  its  farther  confines  beyond 
Acatan.  There  is  also  the  small  settlement  at  the 
western  entrance  on  the  Caimonaro  River,  which  has 
been  mentioned,  at  which  point,  I may  say,  the  rail- 
road is  to  cross;  and  the  other  settlement  adjacent  to 
the  ranch  house.  The  people  of  these  settlements 
are  the  laborers  and  servants  of  the  hacienda  and  are 
dependent  upon  it  for  their  living.  The  majority  of 
them  are  of  pure  Indian  blood. 

Attached  to  the  ranch  house  is  the  hacienda  store. 
This  is  open  each  evening,  when  the  natives  come  to 
purchase  their  supplies  for  the  following  day.  Coffee, 
sugar,  lard  and  other  necessaries  are  bought  in  small 
quantities  of  three  or  four  centavos’  worth.  As  each 
purchase  is  weighed  out  it  is  placed  upon  the  ample 


78  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


brim  of  the  customer’s  sombrero,  and  when  his  trading 
is  completed  he  walks  away  with  the  sombrero  and 
groceries  upon  his  head.  Every  hacienda  has  a store 
of  this  kind,  where  credit  is  extended  to  its  people, 
who  in  turn  pay  their  indebtedness  in  labor. 

All  of  these  natives  live  in  the  depths  of  poverty 
and  ignorance.  Their  existence  is  from  day  to  day. 
To  this  they  are  born  into  the  world,  and  with  them 
each  day  is  sufficient  unto  itself.  A barely  covered 
nakedness,  a bit  of  corn  cake,  beans  and  coffee,  a bed 
on  the  bare  earth,  or,  if  fortune  favors  them,  a canvas 
cot,  is  all  they  ever  have  or  expect,  and  above  and 
beyond  these  things  their  ambition  never  moves. 
Crushed  by  many  generations  of  Spanish  oppression, 
they  have  forgotten  that  the  sky  is  blue  and  that  the 
sun  shines  for  them  as  it  does  for  you  and  me.  Little 
of  the  world’s  sunshine  ever  enters  their  poor  hearts. 
They  are,  perhaps,  as  contented  as  any  humans  can 
be,  but  it  is  an  unwholesome  content.  Ambition 
breeds  a species  of  discontent  that  is  wholesome  — a 
kind  of  discontent  that  begets  progress  and  elevated 
ideals.  The  peons  of  Mexico  are  not  moved  by  any 
such  feelings.  It  was  hard  for  me  to  realize  as  I 
moved  amongst  them  that  they  were  the  descendants 
of  men  who  had  fought  and  sacrificed  to  preserve 
their  freedom,  before  the  Spaniard  finally  reduced 
them  to  slavery. 

The  conditions  here  cited  exemplify  the  conditions 
existing  generally  in  the  sections  of  Western  Mexico 
that  I visited.  It  is  within  the  power  of  the  Gov- 
ernment to  raise  the  peon  population  out  of  this 
deplorable  state.  The  key  to  it  is  the  unsettled  public 
land.  If  Mexico,  instead  of  granting  large  tracts  to 


THE  INDIAN  AND  THE  LAND 


79 


single  individuals  or  corporations,  who  let  it  lie  un- 
tilled, would  but  offer  it  in  quarter-section  farms, 
after  the  manner  of  the  United  States,  and  permit  her 
poor  people  to  pay  for  homesteads  at  some  designated 
future  time,  after  they  had  been  given  an  oppor- 
tunity to  glean  from  the  soil  its  purchase  price,  there 
would  be  a decided  change  for  the  better.  Ambition 
and  industry  would  be  engendered,  and  it  would  bring 
to  Mexico  a vastly  increased  wealth  and  power.  Per- 
haps this  is  to  be  the  policy  of  the  Government  when 
the  population  is  lifted  in  some  degree  out  of  its  dense 
ignorance.  In  towns  of  importance  public  schools 
have  been  established  and  the  number  of  them  is 
constantly  being  increased.  During  the  administra- 
tion of  President  Diaz,  Mexico  has  made  wonderful 
advancement.  But  he  is  an  old  man,  and  it  is  a ques- 
tion whether  or  not  his  successors,  trained  to  continue 
his  policies,  will  be  strong  enough  to  keep  in  subjec- 
tion unprincipled  political  aspirants  who  stand  ready 
always  to  foment  revolution.  The  recent  raids  in 
the  north  were  undoubtedly  the  work  of  impatient 
politicians  feeling  the  pulse  of  the  people. 

As  we  returned  I stopped  by  the  way  to  fill  my 
saddle  bags  with  wild  limes,  which  were  very  plentiful; 
and  I tried  my  teeth  in  a rather  good  looking  wild 
orange,  but  found  it  bitter  in  flavor  and  unpalatable. 
The  limes,  however,  were  as  fine  flavored  as  any 
cultivated  fruit. 

When  we  reached  the  house,  drenched  in  perspira- 
tion, but  ready  for  dinner,  we  found  Kaiser  enter- 
taining an  old  Indian,  Senor  Hi  jar  by  name,  evidently 
a man  of  some  distinction  amongst  his  people.  His 
two  sons,  both  men  over  thirty  years  of  age,  were  with 


80  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


him,  and  we  were  given  a most  ceremonious  introduc- 
tion to  the  visitors.  The  sons  had  found  some  clay 
idols,  stone  battle  axes,  arrow  heads,  and  other  really 
valuable  relics  of  ancient  origin,  when  working  in  a 
near-by  field  some  time  before,  and  as  Kaiser  was 
collecting  these  things,  had  presented  them  to  him. 
He  was  good  enough  to  share  them  with  me,  and  to 
give  me  a bow  and  bunch  of  arrows,  such  as  the  Acatan 
Indians  use  in  hunting  the  white-tailed  deer  and 
smaller  game. 

Here  a curious  bit  of  Mexican-Indian  etiquette  was 
brought  to  our  notice.  Cigars  were  passed,  and 
though  all  three  visitors  accepted  them,  only  the 
father  lighted  his.  We  offered  the  sons  matches,  but 
they  politely  declined.  Then  we  learned  that  it  was 
not  good  form  for  sons  to  smoke  in  their  father’s 
presence,  no  matter  how  old  the  sons  might  be,  nor 
how  much  they  smoked  at  other  times.  The  old  Don 
was  requested  to  relinquish  the  rule  of  etiquette  upon 
this  occasion,  for  the  sake  of  good  fellowship,  but  he 
steadfastly,  though  politely,  refused. 

When  the  party  were  leaving  us  the  old  gentleman 
gave  each  of  us  the  Mexican  embrace  — fell  upon  our 
necks,  put  his  arms  around  us,  and  patted  us  on  the 
back  at  the  same  time  with  his  right  hand.  Then  we 
all  said  “adios,”  and  they  mounted  and  rode  away. 
The  embrace  is  quite  the  usual  thing  at  meeting  and 
parting  of  friends,  amongst  men.  Women  embrace 
and  kiss  one  another  upon  the  cheeks.  It  is  entirely 
possible  for  the  women  to  do  this,  for  they  wear  no 
hats  — only  a mantilla,  tapalo,  or  reboso,  according  to 
their  walk  in  life. 

Our  day’s  ride  brought  to  our  notice  some  disagree- 


THE  INDIAN  AND  THE  LAND 


81 


able  parasites  — garapotas  (wood  ticks)  and  guines, 
the  latter  a microscopical  insect  of  the  bush,  that 
burrows  under  the  skin  and  is  exceedingly  annoying. 
I picked  a dozen  garapotas  out  of  my  skin.  They  all 
had  their  heads  buried,  and  it  is  necessary  to  pull 
them  loose  with  great  care,  for  if  a head  is  broken  off 
under  the  skin  an  irritating  lump  forms  that  will  give 
trouble’  afterward.  It  is  impossible  to  ride  through 
thick  brush  anywhere  without  getting  them  upon  you. 
They  are  also  very  annoying  to  the  horses.  I used  to 
pick  them  off  my  horse  by  the  dozen,  some  of  them 
swelled  almost  to  the  size  of  a large  bean. 

In  spite  of  the  burning  heat  of  day,  the  evenings 
were  delightfully  cool.  After  dinner  we  gathered 
upon  the  patio  veranda  to  lounge  in  easy  chairs  and 
smoke  while  we  enjoyed  the  perfect  quiet  and  peace 
that  hovered  over  our  secluded  corner  of  the  world. 


CHAPTER  IX 


ON  THE  OLD  STAGE  ROAD 

WE  were  in  the  saddle  at  daybreak  and  on  the 
Tepic  trail  — Emerson,  Randall,  Bigelow, 
Gates,  and  myself,  with  Miguel  as  mozo, 
and  one  pack  mule  to  carry  our  necessary  baggage, 
which  included  a good  supply  of  insect  powder,  for 
we  would  be  compelled  to  spend  a night  at  the  famous 
— or  perhaps  I may  truthfully  say  infamous  — Navar- 
rete  hotel  en  route.  We  followed  our  old  trail  out  to 
Santiago  Ixcuintla,  and  here  halted  long  enough  to 
quench  our  thirst  in  lemonade.  We  expected  also,  in 
our  innocence,  to  purchase  a fresh  supply  of  cut  plug 
smoking  tobacco,  for  our  stock  of  pipe  tobacco  was 
at  ebb. 

The  lemonade,  really  made  with  wild  limes,  was  excel- 
lent, but  to  our  chagrin  we  were  unable  to  unearth  a 
single  package  or  plug  of  smoking  tobacco  in  the  place. 
We  raided  the  town.  At  first  we  confidently  demanded 
a certain  brand,  then  we  were  willing  to  take  any 
kind  or  variety;  but  there  was  not  one  ounce  of  the 
weed  to  be  had  in  any  shape,  except  in  cigars  and 
cigarettes.  We  purchased  a stock  of  both,  as  a last 
resort.  These  poor  benighted  people  have  not  yet 
learned  to  smoke  a pipe.  Ah,  well,  that  will  come  to 
them,  like  other  good  things,  with  the  railroad.  They 
smoke  a few  cigars  in  Mexico,  but  even  cigars  are 
pretty  heavy  for  most  of  them.  The  cigarette  is  the 


ON  THE  OLD  STAGE  ROAD 


83 


universal  favorite.  Every  one,  men  and  women  alike, 
smoke  cigarettes,  and  it  is  etiquette  to  offer  ladies 
cigarettes,  when  smoking  in  their  company.  You  are 
free  to  smoke  at  any  time,  and  any  place,  in  Mexico, 
with  but  two  exceptions  — in  church  and  in  the 
Pullman  cars.  Though  every  one  smokes,  no  one, 
however,  smokes  to  excess.  I was  impressed  at  the 
moderation  with  which  tobacco  is  used  in  Mexico. 

The  best  of  the  cigars  made  in  Western  Mexico  are 
only  passably  good.  The  lack  of  quality  is  due  largely, 
or  perhaps  wholly,  to  the  method  of  curing  the  tobacco, 
which  is  very  carelessly  and  crudely  done.  When  even 
moderate  care  is  used  in  curing  the  results  are  fair, 
for  the  soil  and  climate  are  capable  of  producing  an 
excellent  quality  of  tobacco.  In  Eastern  Mexico,  par- 
ticularly the  Vera  Cruz  district,  planters  and  manu- 
facturers have  learned  the  art,  and  the  result  is  as 
fine  cigars  as  the  best  Havana  product.  A twelve- 
cent  Vera  Cruz  is  equal  to  any  twenty-five  cent  Havana. 

Whatever  may  be  said  of  the  cigars,  Mexican  ciga- 
rettes are  the  best  in  the  world,  and  some  of  those 
made  in  Western  Mexico  are  especially  good.  Only 
pure  tobacco  is  used  in  their  manufacture  and  they 
are  wrapped  in  paper  that  has  not  been  bleached 
with  arsenic.  They  have  not  the  vile  odor,  and 
almost  as  vile  flavor,  of  the  drug-doped  American, 
English,  or  Egyptian  brands,  and  are  not  a hun- 
dredth part  so  harmful.  I smoked  a few  of  them,  but 
usually  extracted  the  tobacco  and  used  it  in  my  pipe. 

In  this  connection  I am  reminded  to  say  a word 
about  the  matches,  for  one  cannot  smoke  without 
matches.  They  are  the  very  worst  in  the  world.  They 
are  wax  taper  matches,  with  heads  on  both  ends; 


84  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


and  the  wax  taper  is  usually  so  hard  that  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  make  it  ignite.  Some  of  them  are  very  minute 
in  size,  and  in  no  way  do  they  compare  with  our  ordi- 
nary wooden  parlor  matches. 

We  reached  Navarrete  late  in  the  afternoon  and 
halted  for  the  night.  Thence  to  Tepic  we  were  to 
follow  the  old  San  Bias  military  road,  and  the  follow- 
ing morning  found  us  on  our  way  bright  and  early. 
This  road  is  a part  of  the  longest  stage  line  in  the 
world,  running  in  relays  from  San  Marcos,  the  nearest 
railroad  point,  to  Guadalajara,  Tepic,  Santiago  Ixcu- 
intla,  Culiacan,  and  thence  on  to  Guaymas.  During 
the  rainy  season  the  stages  discontinue  their  run  over 
long  sections  of  it,  for  there  are  many  rivers  and  streams 
to  be  forded,  which  at  the  time  of  the  year  when  they 
are  swollen  to  their  banks  are  quite  impassable.  Dur- 
ing the  very  hot  period  the  stages  only  run  at  night, 
but  through  the  more  moderate  season,  night  and 
day  relays  push  on  regularly  from  point  to  point. 

The  stage  between  Santiago  Ixcuintla  and  Tepic 
City  had  just  resumed  its  runs,  and  we  were  fortu- 
nate enough  to  meet  it.  It  is  a crude  old  affair  drawn 
by  six  mules,  four  abreast  in  the  lead,  and  two  on  the 
wheel.  The  theory  is  that  any  road  wide  enough  to 
permit  the  four  leading  mules  to  squeeze  through  will 
be  wide  enough  for  the  stage,  and  usually  this  is  true, 
though  not  always.  A driver  and  an  armed  guard 
sit  upon  the  box,  mail  bags  and  baggage  fill  the  centre 
of  the  archaic  vehicle,  and  passengers,  as  many  as  can 
crowd  in,  stow  themselves  away  as  best  they  may. 

They  should  paint  a sign  over  the  door:  “He  who 
enters  here  takes  his  life  in  his  hands.”  It  is  a place 
of  real,  refined,  diabolical  torture.  The  driver  has 


The  l1  epic  stage  on  the  longest  stage  line  in  the  world 


A pack  train 


ON  THE  OLD  STAGE  ROAD 


85 


but  one  object  in  life  — to  go  fast  down-hill,  and  over 
rough  places  at  the  highest  attainable  speed.  He 
primes  himself  with  mescal,  and  away  he  goes,  dash- 
ing at  a gallop  down  rocky  hills,  swinging  around 
curves,  or  skirting  precipices  where  the  wheels  scarce 
have  earth  to  turn  upon,  until  you  and  your  fellow 
passengers,  helpless  prisoners  within,  have  the  breath 
jarred  out  of  you,  and  are  in  constant  panic,  in  expec- 
tation of  being  turned  over  and  hurled  into  some 
mountain  gorge,  or  dashed  to  pieces  upon  the  rocks. 
They  do  turn  over  sometimes,  but  it  only  now  and 
then  happens  that  any  one  is  killed,  or  even  seriously 
injured.  To  say  the  least,  though,  it  annoys  one 
dreadfully  to  have  a leg  or  arm  broken,  and  I never 
knew  a passenger  with  a broken  nose  to  look  pleasant. 
Mere  scratches  and  bruises  do  not  count. 

I met  an  American  mining  engineer  who  told  me 
he  once  attempted  the  journey  from  San  Marcos  to 
Tepic  in  the  stage.  He  was  uninitiated  and  unso- 
phisticated then,  and  did  not  know  any  better.  “I 
thought  I would  be  real  comfortable,”  said  he,  “so  I 
bought  two  sittings.  We  left  San  Marcos  at  night, 
and  when  I crowded  inside  of  the  stage  I found  it 
apparently  full  of  mail  bags  and  passengers.  I pro- 
tested that  I owned  two  sittings,  and  wanted  to  know 
where  they  were,  but  the  driver  only  informed  me  there 
was  plenty  of  room,  and  I ’d  have  to  do  the  best  I 
could.  So  I accepted  the  situation,  thinking  it  would 
be  good  fun  anyway,  and  a new  experience,  and 
crowded  into  half  a sitting  between  two  very  dirty 
Mexicans,  with  the  mail  bags  piled  against  our  knees 
between  the  seats.  When  we  started  I thought  every 
joint  in  my  body  would  be  jolted  out  of  its  socket. 


86  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


But  there  was  no  help  for  it;  I was  in  for  what  was 
due  me. 

“That  was  the  most  horrible  night  I ever  lived 
through.  The  stage  turned  over  three  times,  and  we  all 
had  to  help  right  it.  When  we  stopped  at  a little  village 
toward  morning,  to  change  mules,  I gave  up.  I had 
had  enough  of  it  for  ever  and  ever.  I resigned  my 
two  sittings.  I told  the  driver  I would  present  them 
to  the  company  — that  I had  had  my  money’s  worth. 
One  eye  was  swelled  shut  from  a whack  I ’d  had,  the 
skin  was  half  scraped  off  one  cheek,  I had  a sprained 
wrist,  and  was  so  lame  from  the  jolting  I could  hardly 
walk.  I finished  my  trip  on  mule  back.  No  more 
stages  for  me!  The  remembrance  of  that  night  is  like 
a nightmare.” 

The  road  from  Navarrete  to  Tepic  was  excellent 
for  horseback  riding,  but  it  was  hard  to  see  how  a 
stage  could  pass  over  some  sections  of  it.  The  stage 
company,  I was  informed,  receives  an  amount  of 
money  from  the  Government,  each  year,  sufficient  to 
keep  this  road  in  passable  condition,  but  very  little 
work  is  ever  done  upon  it,  and  that  little  only  when 
absolutely  necessary. 

Tepic  City  is  three  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  and 
Navarrete  less  than  a thousand,  so  our  day’s  ride  was 
pretty  constantly  up-hill.  Pack  train  after  pack  train 
was  passed,  some  of  them  with  fifty  or  sixty  animals, 
mostly  mules,  but  some  burros,  and  an  occasional 
horse,  loaded  down  with  all  kinds  of  merchandise  — 
boxes,  barrels,  packages,  and  machinery.  The  larger 
trains  had  a mare,  with  a cow-bell  attached  to  its  neck, 
in  the  lead.  This  is  known  as  the  bell  mare,  and  it 
carries  no  load.  The  mules  are  supposed  to  keep 


ON  THE  OLD  STAGE  ROAD 


87 


within  earshot  of  the  bell,  and  follow  it  meekly.  Several 
muleteers,  some  on  horseback,  but  generally  afoot, 
were  in  attendance,  spread  down  along  the  line  of 
animals,  to  urge  them  on;  and  when  a mule  fell  or 
lay  down  under  an  excessive  burden,  the  muleteer’s 
duty  was  to  prod  it  up  again.  Very  often,  when  an 
animal  got  down,  it  could  not  rise  until  the  load  was 
removed.  The  men  carried  leather  blinds  to  put  over 
the  mule’s  eyes  while  they  replaced  the  load,  for  some 
mules  are  sportive  with  their  heels  and  teeth,  if  they 
can  see  how  to  use  them. 

Nearly  every  mule  had  great  galled  places  on  the 
back,  where  the  pack  saddle  rested.  Some  of  them 
showed  raw  flesh  the  full  size  of  the  saddle,  or  wherever 
a strap  touched  them.  The  average  Mexican  muleteer 
has  no  sympathy  for  brute  or  man.  He  generally 
takes  delight  in  witnessing  agony,  or  is  at  least  indif- 
ferent to  the  torments  of  the  sufferer.  An  American 
miner  told  me  that  he  was  riding  out  of  the  mountains 
one  day  with  some  associates,  when  they  came  upon 
a party  of  muleteers,  halted  by  the  trail  to  eat.  A 
little  distance  from  the  muleteers  a pack  mule  lay, 
with  a broken  leg.  The  Mexicans  had  removed  the 
pack,  but  had  not  killed  the  mule,  as  civilized  men 
would  have  done,  out  of  mercy.  Vultures  were  already 
attacking  it,  and  pecking  the  eyes  out  of  the  helpless, 
living  animal,  while  the  Mexicans  derived  much  evident 
enjoyment  from  the  horrid  spectacle.  One  of  the 
Americans  rode  forward,  drew  his  Colt,  and  ended  the 
sufferings  of  the  mule.  The  chief  amongst  the  Mexicans 
protested,  said  the  mule  was  his  property,  and  that 
he  could  do  with  it  as  he  chose,  that  the  American  had 
no  right  to  shoot  it,  and  that  he  would  have  revenge. 


88  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


The  American  told  the  Mexican,  in  good  strong  Span- 
ish, with  all  the  embellishment  at  his  command,  what 
he  thought  of  such  cruelty  and  inhumanity,  and  the 
miners  rode  on.  A short  time  afterwards  the  Ameri- 
can was  summoned  to  court,  and  was  forced  to  pay 
for  that  mule  the  current  value  of  a first-class  animal, 
with  damages!  Upon  what  basis  the  damages  were 
assessed  is  hard  to  imagine,  but  perhaps  the  magis- 
trate had  a personal  interest  in  them. 

Some  writers  on  Mexico  tell  us  that  every  peon  has 
an  insatiate  love  for  flowers,  and  no  matter  how  poor 
and  insignificant  his  hut,  it  will  be  surrounded  by  a 
beautiful  garden.  So  far  as  my  observations  go,  and  I 
had  a pretty  good  opportunity  to  observe,  this  state- 
ment has  no  foundation  in  fact,  but  is  a bit  of  maudlin 
sentiment.  Prescott  tells  us  that  this  was  the  case 
amongst  the  Aztecs,  and  I suppose  that  those  who 
repeat  it  now  have  read  Prescott,  and  feel  bound  to 
substantiate  the  statement  as  a present-day  condition. 
It  was  one  of  the  things  that  Randall  and  I were 
particularly  interested  in,  and  we  looked  in  vain  for 
a single  effort  at  ornamentation  amongst  the  peon 
settlements.  It  is  strange  that  they  do  not  have 
gardens  where  flowers  grow  so  luxuriantly  and  freely, 
and  without  cultivation.  Almost  invariably,  however, 
the  ground  around  the  huts  is  not  only  without  flowers 
and  ornamentation,  but  is  bare  of  any  vegetation.  Pigs 
rooting  around  the  huts  do  not  permit  even  grass 
to  grow,  and  at  every  hut  along  our  route  pigs  of  all 
shapes,  sizes,  and  complexions,  belonging  to  the  razor- 
backed  varieties,  were  in  evidence,  some  running  free, 
some  tied  by  a string  around  the  neck  to  the  door- 
post. 


The  baby  mule 


A type  suggestive  of  the  Semitic 


ON  THE  OLD  STAGE  ROAD 


89 


Half-starved  dogs  were  numerous,  and  burros  and 
mules,  old  and  young,  wandered  at  their  own  sweet 
will  in  or  out  of  the  open  doors.  One  particularly  sad- 
looking,  forlorn  baby  mule  attracted  my  horse’s  atten- 
tion. We  were  sauntering  slowly  up  a hill  when  the 
pony  descried  the  beast,  pricked  up  his  ears,  and 
looked  at  it  intently.  I gave  him  his  rein,  and  he 
stopped  to  smell  the  little  mule  over,  which,  with  dis- 
dainful indifference,  ignored  us.  When  the  pony  had 
finished  his  inspection,  and  had  classified  the  thing, 
he  moved  on,  apparently  satisfied  as  to  its  identity. 

We  were  getting  well  up  into  the  hills,  and  at  one 
point  a magnificent  view  was  afforded  us.  The  brick- 
red  earth  where  we  were,  lost  itself  in  an  expanse  of 
green,  which  was  gradually  modified  by  a transparent 
haze  rising  from  the  lower  valleys  into  soft  blue  in  the 
far  distance  to  the  northward.  Here  at  our  feet  lay 
valleys,  gentle  rolling  hills,  rivers  like  silver  threads 
winding  their  way  to  the  sea,  as  far  as  our  vision  could 
range  — a rich,  virgin  land  — larger  and  richer  in 
natural  resources  than  many  a kingdom  of  old  Europe. 
To  the  westward  lay  the  Pacific,  wrapped  in  an  opa- 
lescent haze,  and  to  the  eastward  the  bold  peaks  of 
the  mighty  Sierra  Madres  stood  out  against  the  tur- 
quoise sky,  magnificent  and  grand. 

At  this  elevation  there  were  more  rocks  than  in 
the  lower  altitudes  and  the  soil  was  not  so  arable. 
The  jungle  had  given  way  to  a more  scattered  growth, 
and  here  we  saw  no  timber  of  commercial  value.  The 
country  was  not  so  well  watered,  though  we  crossed 
several  small  streams,  and  on  one  hacienda  saw  an 
ancient  irrigation  ditch,  sections  of  it  still  in  use, 
though  other  parts  were  fallen  into  decay. 


90  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


The  people  gazed  at  us  in  wonder  as  we  rode  by, 
and  we  were  evidently  much  more  interesting  to  them 
than  they  were  to  us,  for  already  we  were  becoming 
accustomed  to  the  picturesque  sombreros,  gay-colored 
zerapes,  white  cotton  clothing,  and  sandalled  feet, 
though  still  we  were  attracted  by  the  types  that  sug- 
gested the  Semitic,  Malay,  or  Mongolian,  and  now 
and  again  one  whom  we  could  easily  fancy  a Bedouin 
of  the  plains. 

I wonder  where  these  people  had  their  origin.  In 
this  section  I suppose  they  are  chiefly  a mixture  of 
the  Aztecan  and  Otomian  stocks.  Here  and  there  a 
light-haired  child  suggests  the  Teutonic  — a paren- 
tal influence,  I suppose,  left  by  some  bird  of  passage. 
But  Mexico  is  old,  very  old.  There  is  reason  to  believe 
that  people  lived  there  at  the  remotest  period.  There 
are  ruins  in  Mexico  of  cities  that  were  old  when  the 
Egyptian  pyramids  were  young,  whose  origin  was 
probably  forgotten  when  Solomon’s  Temple  was  dedi- 
cated, and  were  ancient  ruins  before  Nebuchadnezzar 
ascended  the  Babylonian  throne.  What  Marathons 
and  Thermopylses,  unsung  and  unrecorded,  may  have 
been  fought  in  this  old-new  land,  and  what  arts  and 
sciences  discovered,  to  pass  into  the  realm  of  the  For- 
gotten, in  the  long-ago  misty  ages!  However,  we  are 
not  interested  in  the  Past,  but  in  the  Present,  and  we 
shall  let  the  gray  old  centuries  take  care  of  themselves. 

We  were  approaching  Tepic  City,  and  were  recalled 
from  our  reverie  by  the  first  and  only  good  cow  that 
we  saw  in  the  whole  of  Western  Mexico.  She  appeared 
from  somewhere  in  the  roadside  bushes  and  trotted 
along  ahead  of  us  for  a considerable  distance,  wishing 
doubtless  to  display  her  good  qualities.  She  was  of 


ON  THE  OLD  STAGE  ROAD 


91 


undoubted  Dutch  extraction.  It  was  an  indication 
that  somebody  in  this  neighborhood  was  not  satis- 
fied with  the  general  condition  of  things,  for  the  ani- 
mal had  been  imported,  probably  by  some  American 
or  German  resident. 

Our  attention  was  drawn  from  the  cow  to  a Don, 
dressed  in  velvet  and  gold  lace,  after  the  most  approved 
Mexican  fashion,  and  full  of  conceit  and  tequila.  He 
was  mounted  upon  a magnificent  horse,  caparisoned 
with  silver-mounted  saddle  and  bridle,  and  was  too 
drunk  to  see  or  care  for  mere  externals  like  ourselves. 

We  entered  the  city  at  two  o’clock  in  the  afternoon, 
rode  slowly  through  the  quaint  outskirts  and  the 
Calle  de  Mexico,  the  chief  street,  to  the  plaza,  and  into 
the  patio  of  the  Hotel  del  Bolo  de  Oro,  which  was  to 
be  our  domicile  while  we  looked  over  our  first  real 
Mexican  city. 


CHAPTER  X 


THE  HOTEL  AND  THE  BARBER 

THE  Hotel  del  Bolo  de  Oro  is  on  a corner,  and 
on  one  side  faces  the  beautiful  plaza  of  Tepic. 
The  building  is  of  massive  masonry,  two 
stories  high,  and  in  the  centre  is  a patio,  one  hundred 
feet  square,  in  which  palms  and  flowers  luxuriantly  grow 
to  lure  one  to  its  cool,  delightful  retreat.  Completely 
surrounding  the  patio  is  a wide  balcony,  upon  which 
all  the  rooms  of  the  upper  story  open.  The  two 
rooms  assigned  to  our  party  were  on  this  floor,  on  the 
street  side;  and  with  windows  extending  from  ceiling 
to  floor,  the  balmy,  delicious  air  circulated  through 
the  apartment  without  obstruction.  The  floors  were 
of  well  worn  tile,  uncarpeted;  the  furniture  consisted 
of  washstands  and  chairs,  which  were  of  the  plainest, 
and  conventional  canvas  cots,  unprotected  by  the 
usual  cheesecloth  mosquito  bars,  for  there  were  said 
to  be  no  mosquitoes  here.  The  hotel  was  electric- 
lighted  throughout. 

We  found  the  dining-room  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  patio  from  our  rooms,  and  on  the  same  floor,  and 
here  we  proceeded  at  once  to  enjoy  what  proved  a 
really  excellent  dinner,  for  a Mexican  hotel.  The 
menu  included  sopa  (rice  boiled  rather  dry,  with 
tomatoes  and  chilli  peppers);  caldo  (soup,  hot  with 
pepper);  came  (meat — this  was  roasted,  and  flavored 
with  peppers);  picadillo  (minced  meat,  with  pepper); 

92 


THE  HOTEL  AND  THE  BARBER  93 


chillaquile  (tortillas,  chopped  and  spiced) ; mole  (turkey, 
in  red,  dark  gravy,  highly  flavored  with  peppers  and 
things) ; blanquillas  * fritos  (fried  eggs,  a sauce  of  chilli 
peppers  to  pour  over  them);  frijoles,  of  course;  dulce 
(a  sweet  concoction  of  some  sort);  black  coffee;  and 
Mexican  cheese.  There  was  no  butter,  for  you  never 
get  that  in  any  but  American  hotels,  and  the  bread 
was  poor,  but  the  tortillas  very  good. 

This  is  the  characteristic  dinner  served  in  truly 
Mexican  hotels  of  the  better  class,  and  if  one  has  a 
good  stomach,  and  good  digestive  powers,  one  can 
stand  it  for  quite  a while,  without  being  driven  to  the 
doctor.  Everything  tastes  well  enough  — excellent, 
I may  say  — after  your  palate  has  become  accustomed 
to  the  chilli  peppers  and  high  flavoring  used;  but 
human  intestines  were  never  intended  for  such  abuse 
as  a continuous  diet  of  this  sort  subjects  them  to, 
and  it  will  ruin  one’s  digestion  as  sure  as  fate,  if  one 
gives  it  half  a chance.  I suppose  the  Mexicans  have 
been  hardened  to  it.  But  it  is  not  so  with  the  average 
American,  and  if  you  happen  to  be  in  a Mexican  town 
where  there  is  an  American  hotel,  fly  to  it  as  a haven. 
The  most  ordinary,  middle-class  American  hotel  is 
better  in  nearly  every  respect  than  the  best  Mexican 
hostelry,  for  in  the  latter  you  will  not  always  find 
clean  table  linen  or  well-kept  rooms;  and  the  Mexican 
is,  as  a rule,  a poor  cook,  and  cannot  even  boil  eggs 
well.  If  you  call  for  your  eggs  “medium,”  the  chances 
are  you  will  get  them  as  hard  as  they  can  be  cooked, 
and  if  you  want  them  soft,  they  are  brought  to  you 
raw.  If  you  do  go  to  a Mexican  hotel,  however,  do 

* In  Western  Mexico  eggs  are  commonly  called  “ blanquillas  ” It  ia 
an  illustration  of  the  Spanish  used  in  this  region. 


94 


BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


not  find  fault  if  things  are  not  to  your  liking,  but  rest 
assured  your  host  is  doing  for  you  the  very  best  he 
can,  according  to  his  lights,  and  that  you  voluntarily 
submitted  yourself  to  his  care. 

A writer  on  Mexico,  to  whom  reference  has  been 
made  in  a previous  chapter,  says  that  "the  restaurant 
advertised  as  English  or  American  is  to  be  avoided.” 
In  the  sections  of  Western  Mexico  through  which  I 
travelled  there  are  none  but  Mexican  hotels.  But 
later,  when  in  Eastern  Mexico,  I boldly  disregarded  my 
^friend’s  advice,  and  after  that  shed  tears  of  compas- 
sion for  those  poor,  unwary  countrymen  of  mine  who 
follow  it  and  unnecessarily  suffer  from  too  much  chilli 
came  and  muddy  coffee.  But  then,  there  are  some 
travellers  who  like  to  gush  over  everything  foreign, 
just  because  it  is  considered  the  thing  to  do,  or  to 
prove  that  they  have  a more  highly  sensitive  and 
aesthetic  temperament  than  we  poor  ordinary  mortals, 
and  these  people  find  chilli  peppers  and  muddy  coffee 
so  picturesquely  Mexican  that  they  partake  of  them 
with  ecstatic  joy. 

The  same  author  tells  us  that  in  Mexican  hotels  the 
hall  boy  “removes  soiled  linen  articles,  and  en  mahana 
has  them  back  again,  clean  and  snowy  white,  with  no 
one  on  earth  except  himself  knowing  where  in  Mexico 
he  takes  them  or  whence  he  brings  them.”  I permitted 
one  hall  boy  to  take  my  clothes,  and  he  brought  them 
back,  not  mahana,  but  in  two  days  — what  was  left 
of  them.  The  Chinaman  has  never  half  learned  the 
art  of  destroying  clothes;  he  should  get  some  stones  to 
pound  them  on,  to  be  entirely  successful.  Whenever 
my  things  came  back  from  a Mexican  laundry,  however, 
they  were  clean,  according  to  Mexican  standards. 


Calle  de  Mexico,  Topic 


Hotel  del  Bolo  dc  Oro,  Topic  City 


THE  HOTEL  AND  THE  BARBER  95 


Before  leaving  the  subject  of  hotels,  it  may  be 
interesting  to  mention  that  it  is  neither  customary 
nor  advisable  to  give  tips  anywhere  west  of  the  Sierra 
Madres.  I did  it  on  two  occasions,  and  in  both  cases 
learned  to  my  regret  that  the  waiters  became  so 
familiar  with  the  guests,  and  slack  in  their  services, 
both  to  myself  and  others,  that  they  were  discharged 
from  their  employment  by  the  Mexican  proprietor, 
whose  watchful  eye  discovered  the  lax  attention  pretty 
quickly,  and  without  complaint  from  the  visitors.  I 
felt  very  uncomfortable  about  it,  for  my  intended  kind- 
ness was  in  both  instances  the  root  of  the  trouble. 

After  dinner  we  sallied  forth  in  search  of  a barber 
and  a bootblack,  to  freshen  us  up  after  our  two  days’ 
unshaven,  dusty  ride.  We  found  both  in  a shop  almost 
directly  across  the  street,  where  a burly  brigand  wielded 
the  razor,  and  a small  Indian  boy  the  brush.  We 
hesitated  at  the  open  door  as  we  took  in  the  greasy 
barber,  the  untidy  room,  and  the  archaic,  dirt-begrimed 
chair  in  which  innocent  victims  were  consigned  to 
torture. 

"Don’t  look  very  good.  Let ’s  find  another  place,” 
suggested  Randall. 

"It ’s  all  right,”  reassured  Gates,  who,  through  long 
residence  in  Mexico,  had  become  hardened  to  the  con- 
ditions. "It  doesn’t  look  very  good,”  he  assented, 
stepping  forward,  "but  this  barber  is  an  artist.  Any- 
how he  has  the  best  shop  in  town.” 

Then  we  timidly  followed  Gates.  In  spite  of  his 
unprepossessing  appearance,  the  barber  was  a very 
polite  rascal,  as  most  Mexicans  are,  and  he  welcomed 
us  with  a bow  and  a “Buenas  tardes,  senors”  and 
inquired  how  he  could  serve  us.  Gates  told  him  we 


96 


BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


wanted  to  be  barbered  and  polished.  The  barber 
cleared  for  action,  and,  by  mutual  consent,  Emerson 
was  given  the  right  of  way,  because  he  owned  a full 
beard  that  he  did  not  want  tampered  with,  and 
desired  only  a hair-cut.  I shall  not  describe  the  opera- 
tion nor  Emerson’s  appearance  afterward,  for  only 
his  aspect  when  he  descended  from  the  chair,  and  not 
the  operation,  was  painful  or  interesting.  We  were 
all  unusually  magnanimous  in  insisting  that  the  others 
should  be  shaved  first.  None  of  us  was  selfish  about 
his  turn,  and  each  was  quite  satisfied  to  wait  while 
the  rest  were  beautified  and  made  comfortable  by  the 
“ artist.”  The  argument  was  finally  settled  by  giving 
age  the  preference,  and  this  made  Randall  the  first 
martyr.  We  watched  expectantly  when  the  lathering 
was  done,  and  the  razor  was  brought  forth,  for  evi- 
dence of  Randall’s  emotions,  for  he  has  a stiff,  hard 
beard.  As  the  instrument  descended  over  one  cheek, 
the  victim  clutched  the  chair,  like  one  having  a tooth 
extracted,  his  face  became  distorted  with  pain,  and 
there  came  one  long-drawn  “H-e-11!” — and  we  knew 
how  Randall  felt. 

There  are  times  when  a man’s  courage  fails  him,  and 
so  it  was  with  me  then.  I could  not  bring  myself 
to  face  the  ordeal  of  that  barber’s  manipulations,  and 
I fled.  I called  to  the  others  to  wait  for  me,  that  I 
would  be  back  soon,  and  I escaped  to  the  quiet  retreat 
of  the  hotel  across  the  way.  In  my  travelling  bag  I 
had  a shaving  outfit.  I found  it,  enjoyed  a comfort- 
able shave,  and  was  back  in  the  barber’s  shop  in  time 
to  see  the  brigand  put  the  finishing  touches  upon 
Bigelow’s  bleeding  countenance,  the  last  of  the  trio, 
and  to  be  called  names  by  the  others  for  my  cowardice, 


THE  HOTEL  AND  THE  BARBER  97 


which  I indifferently  atoned  for  by  treating  every- 
body to  a shine. 

Now  that  we  were  freshened  and  brushed,  it  was 
decided  before  acquiring  any  of  the  dust  of  the  town 
to  call  upon  a friend  of  Emerson,  Dr.  B.  Wallace,  a 
California  dentist  who  has  been  extracting  Mexican 
molars  for  ten  years.  We  found  Dr.  Wallace  in  his 
beautiful  home  on  the  Calle  de  Mexico,  and  spent  a 
delightful  two  hours  with  him  and  his  charming  wife. 
The  former  called  me  “Tocayo,”  which  means  “name- 
sake,” and  both  of  them  made  us  feel  like  old  friends 
at  once.  Two  months  later,  when  in  Culiacan,  I was 
shocked  by  the  news  of  Mrs.  Wallace’s  death. 

Outwardly  the  house  was  the  characteristic,  plain, 
barred-window,  prison-like  structure  of  Spanish  archi- 
tecture, but  within  it  was  an  artistic  and  charming 
home,  with  wide,  cool  rooms,  opening  upon  the  bright 
flowers  and  palms  of  the  patio,  where  birds  filled  the 
air  with  sweet  music.  Dusk  came  before  we  brought 
ourselves  to  leave  our  friends,  and  to  return  to  the 
hotel  for  supper,  before  setting  out  to  get  a glimpse 
of  the  almost  deserted  plaza  and  streets. 

It  was  delightfully  cool  here,  in  marked  contrast  to 
the  hotter  climate  of  the  lower  levels  of  Santiago  Ixcu- 
intla  and  Navarrete,  and  the  natives  were  muffled  to 
their  eyes  in  bright- colored  zerapes  — the  few  of  them 
that  remained  out  of  doors;  for  there  was  no  music 
on  the  plaza  that  night,  and  on  those  nights  when  the 
band  does  not  play  Mexican  towns  go  to  sleep  at  a 
very  early  hour. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  CAPITAL  CITY  OF  TEPIC 

A CLANG!  clang!  clang!  like  a trackman  strik- 
ing a steel  rail  with  a heavy  sledge,  but 
much  louder,  followed  by  a burst  of  atro- 
cious, discordant,  clamoring  sounds  such  as  one  hears 
in  a boiler  shop  in  full  operation,  awakened  me  at 
dawn,  with  a start,  and  brought  me  up  sitting.  The 
cathedral  bells  were  calling  devotees  to  early  mass. 
They  were  not  ringing,  — it  would  be  a slander  upon 
real  bells  to  say  that,  — but  the  tuneless,  cracked 
things  were  filling  the  world  with  a horrid  din  of 
smashing  and  banging,  which  turned  one’s  thoughts 
to  infernal  regions  rather  than  those  of  ethereal  glory, 
though  I suppose  they  were  intended  to  signify  the 
latter. 

There  was  a movement  in  the  direction  of  Randall’s 
cot,  and  I heard  him  swearing  softly  to  himself,  and 
impious  ejaculations  issued  from  the  other  room  in  a 
voice  that  reminded  me  of  Gates.  For  five  minutes 
the  harsh,  metallic  hammering  continued,  and  then 
suddenly  ceased  and  I settled  again  for  another  nap. 
But  I had  scarcely  begun  to  doze  when  clang!  clang! 
came  again  to  introduce  a repetition  of  the  diabolical 
noise,  and  then  reluctantly,  sadly,  I gave  up  all  hope 
of  further  sleep  and  arose.  We  had  heard  the  racket, 
occurring  at  intervals,  the  previous  afternoon  and 
evening,  but  it  had  stopped  before  bedtime,  and  had 

98 


THE  CAPITAL  CITY  OF  TEPIC 


99 


not  annoyed  us  much.  Now  it  was  different,  and 
with  anything  but  good-humor  I threw  open  the 
window  blinds  to  let  in  the  sprightly,  refreshing  morn- 
ing air  to  cool  my  irritation. 

On  the  street  below  women,  with  sombre-colored 
rebosos  closely  wound  around  their  heads,  were  going 
to  mass;  big-hatted  peons,  wrapped  to  their  eyes  in 
bright-colored  zerapes,  to  protect  them  from  the  cool 
morning  atmosphere,  followed  in  the  train  of  heavily 
laden  mules  and  burros,  or  leisurely  took  their  way  to 
daily  occupations;  and  a man  with  a wooden  tray  of 
buns  upon  his  head  called  out  his  wares,  — “Fruit 
of  the  oven!  Fruit  of  the  oven!”  A gayly  dressed 
hidalgo  trotted  past  upon  a magnificent  horse  capari- 
soned as  showily  as  his  rider;  mozos  were  sweeping  the 
streets  opposite  their  masters’  houses;  and  shop  win- 
dows were  being  thrown  open.  Tepic  was  awake. 
Nobody  could  sleep  after  the  boiler  shop  in  the  cathe- 
dral belfry  began  working,  and  Tepic,  long-suffering 
Tepic,  knew  it. 

There  is  an  interesting  story  about  these  cathedral 
bells  that  is  worth  repeating.  As  the  legend  goes, 
the  priests  at  Tepic  announced  one  day  that  the  spirits 
of  the  bells  were  going  to  Rome  to  be  blessed  by  the 
Pope,  and  that  the  bells  could  not  ring  again  until 
their  spirits  came  back.  It  would  take  about  seven 
days  for  them  to  make  the  trip,  and  it  was  neces- 
sary to  raise  a large  amount  of  money  to  defray  the 
expenses  of  the  spirits  while  they  were  away.  There- 
fore, the  peons  were  called  upon  to  contribute  every 
centavo  they  could  spare,  for  if  the  spirits  of  the  bells 
did  not  have  money  enough  to  get  blessed,  and  return 
home,  all  Tepic  would  be  everlastingly  damned.  Of 


100  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


course,  the  bells  ceased  their  racket  for  a week,  during 
which  period  the  peons  were  in  feverish,  anxious  sus- 
pense, and  spent  their  time  saying  prayers  for  the 
success  and  safe  return  of  the  bells’  spirits.  What 
would  happen  in  case  the  spirits  of  the  bells  failed  to 
return  was  awful  to  contemplate!  Finally  one  morn- 
ing the  old  racket  in  the  cathedral  belfry  resumed, 
and  the  tension  was  broken.  The  spirits  were  back! 
Tepic  was  saved!  The  town  had  escaped  perdition, 
and  everybody  was  pleased.  That  happened  several 
years  ago,  and  the  only  complaint  we  had  to  make 
against  the  arrangement  was  that  the  spirits  did  not 
stay  in  Rome  until  after  our  visit. 

We  ate  our  breakfast  leisurely  and  then  strolled 
out  to  the  plaza,  the  centre  of  attraction  in  every 
Mexican  city.  The  beautiful  cathedral,  with  its  two 
graceful  spires,  occupies  a portion  of  the  southern  side 
of  the  square,  and  our  hotel,  with  pillared  and  bal- 
conied front,  the  western.  The  square  was  otherwise 
surrounded  by  booths,  where  hat  makers,  leather 
workers,  fruit  and  vegetable  venders,  and  dealers  in 
every  conceivable  article  necessary  to  the  life  or 
comfort  of  the  people,  plied  their  trades.  Fringing 
the  plaza  walk  were  stretched  canvas  awnings,  to 
shelter  the  men  and  women  who  sold  their  wares 
there,  and  who  stood  around  chatting,  or  squatted 
upon  the  ground,  surrounded  by  little  piles  of  red 
chilli  peppers,  oranges,  cherimoyes  and  other  tropical 
fruits  and  vegetables.  Here  and  there  an  old  woman 
might  be  seen  heating  frijoles  and  tortillas  over  a 
charcoal  fire  for  the  solace  of  the  hungry  peon,  who 
purchased  the  delicacies  at  one,  two,  or  three  cen- 
tavos’ worth,  according  to  the  state  of  his  appetite  or 


, Tepic  City 


A street  in  Tepic 


THE  CAPITAL  CITY  OF  TEPIC  101 


pocketbook.  Moving  hither  and  thither  were  red, 
blue,  and  yellow  zerapes  and  picturesque  sombreros, 
giving  life  and  color  to  a scene  that  could  not  fail  to 
fascinate  and  hold  the  observer. 

In  the  centre  of  the  plaza  grew  luxuriant  palms, 
orange,  lemon,  and  coffee  trees,  and  a profusion  of 
tropical  flowers.  The  much  vaunted  “ bubbling  foun- 
tain” which  travellers  invariably  describe  as  placed 
in  the  centre  of  every  Mexican  plaza,  and  which 
usually  exists  only  in  the  writer’s  imagination,  save 
in  a few  of  the  eastern  cities,  was  not  there,  but  the 
plaza  was  beautiful  and  artistic,  nevertheless  — an 
emerald  set  in  a circle  of  color. 

The  day  was  magnificent,  the  pure  mountain  air, 
charged  with  the  perfume  of  flowers,  was  both  invig- 
orating and  inspiring.  Tepic,  at  an  elevation  of  three 
thousand  feet,  and  sitting  as  it  does  in  the  hollow  of 
the  mountains,  has  an  ideal  climate  the  year  through, 
and  is  free  from  the  fevers  so  prevalent  in  the  hotter 
sections  of  the  lower  altitudes  along  the  seacoast, 
and  here  the  sufferer  from  calentura  finds  a retreat 
where  he  can  convalesce  and  rest. 

We  halted  at  the  shops,  and  bought  some  odds  and 
ends,  always  paying  three  times  the  established  price 
for  them,  because  we  were  Americans,  and  therefore, 
according  to  the  logic  of  the  people,  bloated  pluto- 
crats, each  owning  two  or  three  railroads  or  their 
equivalent.  For  even  here,  in  Tepic,  stories  have 
come  from  the  tourist  cities  of  the  east,  of  the  extrava- 
gance of  Americans;  and  the  merchants  have  picked 
up  some  crumbs  of  largess  from  the  miner  and  the 
engineer.  But  the  prices  asked  were  reasonable 
enough,  after  a little  dickering  had  driven  them  down 


102  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


a bit,  and  we  did  not  care.  We  had  already  learned 
that  the  vender  would  be  dissatisfied  with  himself  if 
he  were  paid,  without  question,  the  first  price  asked, 
and  that  if  a second  member  of  our  party  returned 
to  duplicate  an  article  five  minutes  after  one  of  us 
had  made  a purchase,  and  had  been  so  foolish  as  not 
to  dicker,  and  cut  the  vender  down  in  his  demands, 
the  price  of  the  article  in  that  brief  period  would 
have  doubled,  at  least.  The  unsophisticated,  “ gentle- 
eyed” Mexican  would  have  been  metaphorically  kick- 
ing himself  because  he  had  not  asked  more,  for  he 
believes  the  limit  is  never  reached  until  the  customer 
objects. 

Once  I asked  the  price  of  an  article. 

“ Fifteen  pesos,  senor,”  answered  the  vender. 

I walked  away  and  he  followed. 

“How  much  will  the  senor  give?” 

“One  peso.” 

Many  exclamations  of  horror,  at  the  very  idea  of 
selling  the  article  at  such  a ridiculously  low  price. 

“Seven  pesos,  senor,  — six  pesos?  Two  pesos?  One 
peso,  senor!  Here,  senor,  it  is  yours  for  one  peso.” 

I might  have  had  it  at  a still  lower  price,  but  this 
was  my  offer,  and  I took  it.  It  was  a relic  that  had 
probably  cost  the  vender  a few  centavos. 

At  the  leather  booths  they  were  making  everything 
from  sandals  to  cartridge  belts  and  saddles,  and  if  you 
did  not  see  what  you  wanted  they  would  make  it 
for  you  manana;  and  at  the  hat  booths  they  would 
take  your  measure  for  a hat  of  any  style  or  shape  you 
desired.  Some  of  the  Panamas  were  of  exquisite 
texture  and  excellent  workmanship,  and  at  prices 
ridiculously  low,  according  to  our  standards. 


THE  CAPITAL  CITY  OF  TEPIC  103 


Some  beautifully  wrought  zerapes  drew  me  into  a 
shop,  and  one  which  strongly  resembled  Navajo  blanket 
work  took  my  fancy.  “That,”  said  the  dealer,  “was 
made  by  the  Indians  of  the  mountains.  They  spun 
the  fabric,  and  colored  it  with  dyes  made  by  them- 
selves from  vegetables,  and  wove  it  on  their  hand 
looms.  I have  but  two  of  that  sort  in  my  whole  shop, 
for  they  are  scarce  and  hard  to  buy.  The  others  are 
made  by  machinery,  in  the  mills,  dyed  with  commer- 
cial colors,  and  will  fade.” 

I could  not  leave  the  little  zerape,  with  its  artisti- 
cally blended  colors,  though  it  was  much  smaller  than 
I should  have  wished,  and  proudly  I bore  it  away. 

In  front  of  the  cathedral,  beggars  of  all  sorts  and 
descriptions,  one  or  two  of  them  with  no  legs,  pleaded 
for  alms.  It  was  Saturday,  and  All  Souls’  Day,  and 
beggars,  generally  restrained  at  other  times,  are 
licensed  to  ply  their  calling  — for  it  is  a profession 
here  — on  Saturdays  and  Sundays  and  feast  days. 

We  looked  in  at  the  door,  and  stood  for  a moment 
uncovered  within  the  darkened  portals  of  the  cathe- 
dral itself.  Mass  was  over,  and  it  was  quite  deserted 
and  empty,  save  for  two  or  three  women  penitents 
kneeling  before  the  altar,  an  old  peon,  kneeling,  who 
twice  or  thrice  devoutly  touched  his  lips  to  the  floor; 
and  just  within  the  door  an  old  woman  at  a table, 
displaying  rosaries  and  charms  for  sale.  The  altar 
was  a mass  of  brazen  filigree,  and  the  walls  were 
adorned  with  horribly  executed  paintings  of  scrip- 
tural saints  and  scenes. 

This  reminds  me  that  on  the  outskirts  of  Tepic 
there  is  a chapel  especially  blessed  by  God,  who  once 
performed  there  a wonderful  miracle.  Of  the  truth 


104  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


of  this  there  can  be  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of  any  one 
that  believes  in  such  things,  for  the  proof  of  it  lies 
in  plain,  open  sight  of  the  world. 

Once  upon  a time  a padre,  travelling  through  the 
country,  reached  this  chapel  late  at  night,  and  as  the 
church  was  closed  and  the  night  was  warm  and  balmy, 
he  laid  him  down  upon  the  naked  earth  outside  to 
sleep.  Now,  as  this  padre  was  a very  holy  man  he 
stretched  his  arms  at  right  angles  from  his  body,  as 
he  lay  on  his  back  and  slept,  thus  cutting,  with  his 
body  and  arms,  the  form  of  the  sacred  Cross.  Mark 
you,  it  was  a sandy  bit  of  earth  upon  which  the  padre 
lay,  and  never  had  a blade  of  grass  grown  upon  it. 

In  the  morning  the  most  holy  padre  arose  and  went 
his  way,  but,  behold!  ere  another  day  had  dawned 
green  grass  sprang  up  where  he  had  slept,  and  behold, 
too,  his  body  and  arms  were  outlined  in  the  form  of 
the  Cross.  Neither  planted  by  the  hand  of  man, 
nor  watered  nor  trimmed  by  any  but  God’s  angels 
from  heaven,  that  cross  of  grass  grows  to-day  as 
green,  as  well  cropped,  and  as  fresh  as  the  day  it  so 
miraculously  sprang  up.  There  it  is,  and  the  fact 
that  it  is  there  is  proof  enough  for  any  man  in  his  right 
mind  of  the  truth  of  the  story  of  its  origin. 

We  walked  through  several  of  the  principal  streets, 
lined  with  houses  that  outwardly  were  grim,  austere, 
and  prison-like,  but  through  open  doors  or  windows 
glimpsed  artistic  furnishings  within,  and  many  charm- 
ing gardens  and  inviting  patios. 

The  stores  frequently  bore  individual  names  or 
legends.  One,  a pawn-shop,  for  instance,  was  called 
“La  Voz  del  Pueblo”  (The  Voice  of  the  People)  and 
offered  to  make  loans  at  the  modest  rate  of  twelve 


THE  CAPITAL  CITY  OF  TEPIC  105 


per  cent  per  month.  The  pawn-shops  are  the  constant 
resort  of  the  peons,  and  every  town  has  several  of 
them.  They  are  under  the  eye  of  the  Government, 
and  when  unredeemed  pledges  are  sold,  should  they 
bring  more  than  the  amount  loaned  upon  them,  with 
the  agreed  interest,  the  balance  obtained  from  the 
sale  is  returned  to  the  pledger. 

There  were  a good  many  soldiers  lounging  about, 
and  not  very  attractive  looking  ones  either.  Randall 
and  I agreed  that  we  would  not  care  to  meet  them  after 
dark  in  a lonely  place.  They  were  slouchy  in  appear- 
ance, in  ill-fitting  blue  uniforms,  and  sandalled  feet. 
The  officers,  however,  were  trim  in  neat  uniforms. 

Here  the  policemen  were  not  so  slouchy  or  dirty  as 
in  the  other  places  we  had  visited,  and  they  wore 
blue  cloth  uniforms.  Randall  and  I were  walking 
alone  in  the  Alameda  when  I saw  one  separated  and 
alone  and  unprotected,  and  a sudden  desire  came  upon 
me  to  waylay  and  sample  him  with  my  camera. 

“Randall,”  said  I,  “suppose  you  spring  some  of 
your  Castilian  on  the  cop,  and  while  he  is  trying  to 
decide  whether  you  are  speaking  Arabic  or  German 
or  Choctaw,  I’ll  train  my  camera  on  him  and  get  a 
picture.” 

Randall  ignored  my  slur  on  his  Spanish,  and  good- 
naturedly  approaching  the  officer  lifted  his  hat,  and 
said  (he  translated  the  conversation  for  me  afterward) : 

“My  friend  has  a passion,  senor  officer,  for  taking 
photographs,  and  when  I had  the  pleasure  of  calling 
his  attention  just  now  to  your  soldierly  appearance 
and  your  watchful  eye,  and  told  him  you  were  the 
finest  looking  officer  we  had  seen  in  all  Mexico,  he 
immediately  wanted  to  photograph  you;  but  I could 


106  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


not  permit  him  to  annoy  you  so  far,  senor  officer, 
without  first  asking  your  permission.  He  is  not 
altogether  responsible,  senor,  and  I have  to  watch 
him.” 

“It  will  be  a pleasure  to  stand  for  a photograph  for 
your  friend,  senor,”  replied  the  officer,  politely  lifting 
his  hat.  “Are  you,  then,  the  guardian  of  your  friend? 
He  is  not  crazy,  I hope,  senor?” 

“Not  very,”  assured  Randall,  “and  he’s  always 
perfectly  harmless  under  my  restraining  influence.  I 
thank  you,  senor.” 

While  Randall  placed  him  in  the  sunlight  and  I 
bowed  and  scraped  my  acknowledgments  to  the 
officer  for  his  courtesy,  the  humbug  Randall  was 
telling  him  that  I was  always  trying  to  escape  — that 
I might  get  away  some  time,  — and  asking  him  to 
take  charge  of  me,  and  escort  me  to  the  hotel,  if  he 
should  see  me  wandering  about  alone.  I was  wholly 
unconscious  of  the  fact  that  the  officer  looked  upon 
me  indulgently  as  a harmless  idiot,  whose  whim  he 
was  gratifying. 

“They  speak  a lot  better  Spanish  here  than  any- 
where else  we’ve  been,”  remarked  Randall  as  we 
walked  away.  “Now  that  policeman  can  talk  Span- 
ish almost  as  well  as  I can,  and  he  understood  all  I 
said.” 

“Perhaps  you’re  learning  the  dialect  yourself,”  I 
suggested.  “What  did  you  tell  him?” 

“Well,  one  thing,  I got  even  with  you  for  poking 
fun  at  my  Spanish,”  said  he,  and  then  he  repeated  it 
all  to  me,  and  seemed  to  think  it  was  a good  joke. 
I did  not  see  the  point,  but  I was  careful  after  that  not 
to  wander  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Alameda  alone, 


The  'policeman  posed  for  his  photograph 


The  cemetery  and  chapel,  Tepic 


THE  CAPITAL  CITY  OF  TEPIC  107 


for  I had  no  wish  to  be  taken  under  the  kindly  care 
and  protecting  arm  of  the  gracious  policeman. 

We  met  the  others  of  our  party  at  the  hotel,  where 
we  learned  that  Emerson  was  in  trouble.  He  had 
several  hundred  dollars  of  United  States  gold  which  it 
was  imperative  he  should  exchange  for  Mexican 
currency,  but  his  gold  was  spurned  by  all  the  banks. 
They  simply  would  not  touch  the  worthless  stuff. 
As  a last  resort  he  was  about  to  apply  to  a firm  of 
German  merchants,  the  largest  and  most  extensive 
house  in  Tepic  Territory.  Mr.  Eugen  Hildebrand, 
the  German  Consul,  who  was  a member  of  this  firm, 
had  been  one  of  our  fellow  passengers  on  the  steamer 
San  Jose,  and  I determined  to  accompany  Emerson 
in  calling  upon  him  in  compliance  with  a promise  to 
do  so  should  I visit  Tepic. 

Mr.  Hildebrand  welcomed  us  cordially,  exchanged 
Emerson’s  gold,  and  invited  me  to  a noonday  dinner 
at  his  home,  suggesting  that  afterward  we  might 
take  a drive,  visit  the  cemetery  and  witness  there 
the  celebration  of  the  fiesta  of  All  Souls,  and  see  the 
sights  generally,  an  invitation  which  I promptly  and 
heartily  accepted. 

The  firm  of  which  Mr.  Hildebrand  is  the  head  owns 
large  haciendas  upon  which  coffee,  tobacco,  and  the 
cocoa  oil  nut  are  grown  and  manufactured  into  market- 
able shape,  as  well  as  the  many  other  profitable  crops 
of  the  country,  and  where  upward  of  fifteen  hundred 
laborers  are  employed.  In  Tepic  City  they  maintain 
a counting  house  and  immense  warerooms  as  the  dis- 
tributing point  for  their  own  produce  and  the  general 
merchandise  in  which  they  deal. 

Mr.  Hildebrand’s  home  was  but  a few  doors  away. 


108  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


The  house  was  a typical  one  of  the  best  class,  showing 
to  the  streets  grim  walls  of  bare  masonry,  and  sug- 
gesting nothing  of  the  charm  and  beauty,  the  refine- 
ment and  culture,  that  lay  behind  the  barred  windows 
and  heavy  oaken  doors.  My  host  led  me  into  a wide 
and  airy  room  looking  upon  the  patio  garden  massed 
with  palms  and  blossoming  flowers  where  song  birds 
from  their  cages  filled  the  air  with  melody.  The 
room  itself  was  semi-Oriental  in  its  furnishings,  and 
a delightful  lounging  place,  with  many  books  in  Eng- 
lish, German,  and  Spanish,  some  of  them  rare  old 
works,  to  fit  any  mood  and  any  inclination.  Here  we 
chatted  for  half  an  hour,  until  a mozo  announced 
dinner. 

The  table  was  spread  beneath  a corner  of  the  arched 
balcony  of  the  patio,  where  we  could  enjoy  the  beauti- 
ful flowers  and  perfumed  air  while  we  ate.  Coffee 
and  cigars,  grown  and  manufactured  upon  my  host’s 
own  hacienda,  followed  the  dinner.  While  we  enjoyed 
them  I took  occasion  to  compliment  him  upon  the 
very  efficient  service  of  the  mozo  who  attended  us. 

“He ’s  been  with  me  seven  years,”  said  Mr.  Hilde- 
brand, “and  I like  him  particularly  because  he  steals 
nothing  but  money.” 

The  carriage,  with  a span  of  fine  young  mules,  was 
waiting  for  us  at  the  door,  and  we  were  soon  rattling 
away  over  the  round  paving  stones  toward  the  scene 
of  the  fiesta  celebration. 


CHAPTER  XII 


THE  FIESTA  OF  ALL  SOULS 

THE  fiesta  of  All  Saints  had  been  celebrated 
the  previous  day,  but  this,  the  fiesta  of  All 
Souls,  was  the  great  occasion  to  those  who 
were  concerned  with  the  quiet  repose  of  the  souls  of 
departed  friends,  and  who  wished  to  pay  tribute  to 
their  memory.  People  laden  with  flowers,  attired  in 
their  cleanest  and  best,  lined  the  road  leading  to  the 
cemetery.  Near  the  gate  were  venders  of  cakes  and 
fruits,  pulque,  mescal,  and  other  drinks. 

Pulque,  the  ancient  drink  of  the  Aztecs,  is  the  fer- 
mented sap  of  a species  of  maguay  or  century  plant, 
and  was  a great  favorite  of  the  Aztecs  in  the  days  of 
Montezuma,  as  it  is  with  their  descendants  in  the 
days  of  Diaz.  The  centre  of  the  plant  is  hollowed  out 
to  form  a cup,  in  which  sap  gathers.  The  sap  is 
sucked  up  with  the  mouth  through  a reed,  ejected  into 
a goatskin  bag  carried  upon  the  back  of  the  sap  gather- 
ers, deposited  in  a large  tank,  where  a certain  kind  of 
earth  is  mixed  with  it  to  induce  proper  fermentation, 
and  finally  when  strained  is  ready  for  consumption. 

I must  have  a glass  of  it.  Who  interested  in  the 
Aztecs  and  their  romantic  history  could  pass  it,  the 
one  surviving  product  of  a dead  civilization?  With 
the  Indians  about  me,  dressed  in  their  picturesque  cos- 
tumes, it  was  not  hard  to  imagine  myself  back  in  the 
old  days;  this  fiesta  was  a feast  to  one  of  the  heathen 

109 


110  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


gods;  this  nectar  was  brewed  by  an  aborigine  who 
worshipped  at  the  shrine  of  Quetzalcoatl,  the  god  of  the 
air.  It  was  milky  in  appearance,  and  not  attractive, 
and  the  first  swallow  was  sufficient  to  dispel  my  illu- 
sion and  make  me  pity  the  taste  of  the  old  heathens. 
It  resembled  in  flavor  a blend  of  mighty  poor  cider 
and  sour  milk. 

Some  of  the  natives  had  partaken  too  copiously  of 
pulque  and  mescal,  and  had  passed  the  bounds  of 
strict  sobriety.  Mescal  is  the  distilled  sap  of  another 
variety  of  the  maguay  plant,  and  is  a fiery  liquor.  I 
do  not  know  how  it  affects  the  natives,  but  foreigners 
who  drink  much  of  it,  for  any  length  of  time,  are 
afflicted  with  a sort  of  brain  dissolution,  — an  effect 
similar  to  that  of  absinthe,  — and  it  is  the  curse  of 
the  young  American  who  does  not  set  himself  firmly 
against  its  use.  It  has  ended  many  a promising  career. 
Many  a future  has  been  blighted  by  women  and  the 
seductive  mescal,  or  tequila,  as  a more  refined  grade 
of  the  same  liquor  is  called. 

The  cemetery  was  a mass  of  color.  Flowers  were 
in  profusion.  People  attired  in  gaudy-hued  clothing 
moved  hither  and  thither  amongst  fantastic  tombs, 
nearly  all  of  which  had  been  decorated  with  floral 
tributes.  Crowds  pressed  in  and  out  of  a little  chapel, 
where  mass  was  being  said,  and  candles  were  being 
lighted,  for  the  repose  of  many  souls.  The  poor  peons 
deny  and  pinch  themselves  that  they  may  have  the 
money  to  purchase  candles  on  these  days,  and  bring 
them  to  the  priest  to  be  blessed  and  lighted  at  the 
altars;  and  many  a cherished  zerape  or  other  article, 
necessary  to  the  comfort  of  the  owner,  goes  to  the 
pawnbroker  that  funds  may  be  raised  for  that  purpose. 


THE  FIESTA  OF  ALL  SOULS 


111 


There  are  fiesta  days  when  pigs,  goats,  cows,  mules, 
and  asses  are  brought  to  the  priest  also,  to  be  blessed, 
to  insure  a bountiful  increase.  In  the  words  of  one 
of  our  writers  on  Mexico,  “it  is  a very  sweet  and  im- 
pressive service,  reflecting  the  gentle  simplicity  of  the 
peon  and  his  padre.”  I suppose  it  is,  but  let  one  pic- 
ture to  oneself  the  sweet,  sad  gentleness  of  a priest 
solemnly  blessing  a refractory  goat  or  pig,  particularly 
if  the  excited  goat  plants  his  head  in  protest  against 
the  padre’s  stomach,  as  happened  in  one  case  I heard 
of;  or  the  good  padre,  in  sweet  endeavor,  trying  to 
bestow  his  blessing  upon  a struggling,  squealing, 
unwilling  pig,  the  animal  duly  decorated  with  many- 
hued  rags,  and  its  hair  gorgeously  dyed  impossible 
colors. 

We  halted  before  the  tomb  of  the  brigand  governor 
Manuel  Lozado,  the  last  man  to  fight  for  the  independ- 
ence of  the  territory,  and  one  of  the  last  to  offer  armed 
resistance  to  the  Diaz  government.  Loving  hands 
had  draped  garlands  upon  his  grave,  and  many  an 
old  man  who  had  borne  arms  under  the  leadership  of 
the  brave  old  highwayman  halted  with  uncovered  head 
before  the  tomb.  An  edict  of  the  Government  for- 
bids the  very  mention  of  his  name,  as  a precaution 
to  smother  the  sedition  that  memory  of  the  brave 
deeds  and  bloody  fights  of  upwards  of  thirty  years 
ago  might  even  yet  engender;  but  there  are  some 
memories  that  edicts  cannot  smother,  and  sometimes 
public  opinion  is  so  strong  that  edicts  and  laws  become 
inoperative.  Boldly  they  have  carved  Lozado’s  name 
upon  the  tomb,  and  boldly  they  pay  respect  to  it; 
and  the  eyes  of  the  authorities  are  blind  to  what  is 
done. 


112  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


We  cannot  sympathize  with  Lozado’s  efforts  against 
the  Government,  but  whether  he  was  impelled  by  per- 
sonal motives  or  a misdirected  patriotism,  we  can  and 
must  admire  him.  Between  the  years  1870  and  1877, 
this  brigand  patriot,  if  such  an  antithesis  may  be  per- 
mitted in  describing  him,  roused  the  Indian  population 
in  his  cause,  and  actively  conducted  operations  against 
the  soldiers  of  Juarez,  Lerdo,  and  finally  against  Diaz, 
through  many  bloody  raids.  In  the  latter  year  he 
attacked  Guadalajara,  was  defeated,  captured,  and 
shot. 

The  payment  of  a slight  tribute  to  Lozado’s  agents 
during  his  seven  years’  rule  guaranteed  to  the  travel- 
ler protection  to  life  and  property,  and  to  him  who 
paid  tribute  the  country  was  free  from  the  robberies 
of  highwaymen,  who  subsequently  for  a time  infested 
it,  and  made  travelling  dangerous  and  life  uncertain. 
It  is  said  that  a large  English  house  originally  raised 
Lozado  to  power  by  supplying  him  with  arms  and 
ammunition,  the  English  firm  receiving  important 
concessions  in  return  for  the  aid  rendered.  It  was 
Lozado’s  custom,  when  an  extended  campaign  was 
contemplated,  to  destroy  the  banana  trees,  the  chief 
source  of  food,  and  thus  force  the  Indian  population 
to  join  his  forces  and  ravage  the  enemy’s  country 
for  provision.  In  one  of  these  raids  Tepic  City  was 
attacked,  and  a desperate  battle  was  fought  on  the 
plaza.  The  Hotel  del  Bolo  de  Oro  was  fortified,  and 
in  its  capture  the  roof  and  gutters  ran  with  blood. 

There  is  a story  told  of  Lozado’s  stern  justice.  A 
mule  was  once  stolen  from  a train  as  it  passed  through 
the  village  of  Espino  — one  of  the  small  villages  on 
the  road  between  Navarrete  and  Tepic  — and  the 


“ Boldly  they  have  carved  Lozado's  name  upon 
the  tomb  ” 


A view  over  Tepic  City 


THE  FIESTA  OF  ALL  SOULS 


113 


muleteer  complained  to  Lozado’s  judge.  The  latter 
made  no  effort  to  find  the  thief  and  have  the  mule 
returned,  and  the  matter  was  finally  brought  to  the 
attention  of  Lozado  himself.  The  chief  made  an 
immediate  investigation,  recovered  the  mule,  and 
restored  it  to  its  owner,  and  then  hung  the  thief  and 
the  delinquent  judge,  side  by  side,  as  an  object  lesson 
to  the  populace  and  officials. 

In  many  of  his  raids  upon  the  larger  towns  Lozado,  it 
was  known,  acquired  a large  amount  of  treasure,  which 
was  supposed  to  have  been  concealed  near  Tepic  City, 
but  search  has  never  disclosed  it,  and  so  far  as  is  known 
it  still  lies  buried  and  undiscovered. 

A gay  old  highwayman  was  this  Lozado,  under 
whose  despotic  rule  the  peons  were  happy,  for  they 
enjoyed  a greater  degree  of  freedom  than  they  had 
known  since  the  coming  of  the  conquerors,  and  still 
they  love  and  revere  his  memory  as  a Moses  who 
would  have  delivered  them  from  bondage. 

From  the  cemetery  we  drove  out  upon  an  eminence 
overlooking  the  city,  and  from  this  vantage-ground 
had  an  excellent  view  of  Tepic,  very  attractive  and 
beautiful,  nestling  there  in  the  hollow  of  the  moun- 
tains, its  white  buildings  reflecting  the  bright  light  of 
the  afternoon  sun,  the  dark  surrounding  hills  stand- 
ing out  in  marked  contrast.  It  was  an  entrancing 
view. 

"Over  there,”  remarked  Mr.  Hildebrand,  “it  is  said 
the  Indians  used  to  have  a rich  gold  mine.  The 
legends  tell  us  how  they  brought  large  quantities  of 
gold,  in  dust  and  nuggets,  to  Tepic,  and  sold  it  for  a 
song  to  the  Spanish  merchants;  but  they  could  never 
be  prevailed  upon  to  disclose  the  secret  of  the  mine’s 


114  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


location.  Men  who  followed  them  with  stealth  were 
led  through  rocky  passes  and  canyons,  and  then  eluded, 
and  returned  no  wiser  than  before.” 

There  is  a legend  about  these  Indians  and  their 
gold,  and  it  may  be  of  interest  to  repeat  it  here.  It  is 
called  “The  Magic  Scale  and  the  Padre’s  Corn,”  and 
is  as  follows: 

There  lived  in  Tepic  a hundred  years  or  so  ago  a 
poor  Spaniard  of  Mexican  birth,  who  brooded  much 
over  his  poverty  and  was  very  discontented  and  un- 
happy. Once  this  man’s  family  was  prominent  and 
wealthy,  but  before  he  came  into  the  world  the  wealth 
had  slipped  away,  and  he  felt  that  fate  had  been  hard 
with  him.  He  was  proud  and  he  resented  the  cir- 
cumstances that  compelled  him  to  labor  as  a menial, 
like  a common  peon.  His  home  was  a hovel,  his 
food  the  meanest  and  poorest.  Always  he  drudged 
and  drudged.  Only  on  the  fiesta  day  of  some  good 
saint  did  he  have  leisure  to  rest  and  relax.  “Bah! 
Rest?  That  was  not  rest.”  These  were  the  thoughts 
that  constantly  filled  his  mind  and  made  him  un- 
happy. He  was  occupied  with  them  one  morning  as 
he  slouched  along  the  street  that  skirts  Tepic  plaza 
on  the  south,  where  there  were  many  shops  in  whose 
windows  were  displayed  the  good  things  of  life  that 
he  craved.  He  paused  before  a jeweller’s  window  to 
admire  the  pretty  trinkets  — rings,  and  chains,  and 
precious  stones.  Finally  his  eyes  rested  upon  a scale 
such  as  the  jewellers  used  for  weighing  gold.  It  was  a 
very  ordinary  scale,  and  he  had  seen  similar  ones  a 
hundred  times  before,  but  for  some  unaccountable 
reason  this  one  attracted  and  fascinated  him. 

For  a long  while  he  stood  and  gazed  at  the  scale. 


THE  FIESTA  OF  ALL  SOULS 


115 


He  took  in  its  every  outline.  He  counted  the  tiny 
weights  that  were  piled  by  its  side.  Before  his  fancy’s 
eye  grew  heaps  of  gold  that  in  future  years  would  be 
balanced  upon  the  delicate  instrument,  gold  that 
would  buy  anything,  — fine  houses,  fine  clothes,  all 
the  things  for  which  he  so  longed.  Suddenly  some 
sprite  whispered  into  his  ear  that  if  he  could  but  gain 
possession  of  the  scale  all  the  gold  that  it  was  destined 
to  weigh  during  its  existence  would  be  his.  As  he 
forced  himself  from  the  jeweller’s  window  and  hurried 
to  his  work,  his  brain  was  awhirl  with  the  thought; 
and  all  day  long  as  he  labored  the  scale  kept  rising 
before  his  vision,  and  around  him  were  piles  of  gold 
— gold  that  was  his.  He  forgot  his  poverty  and  the 
present.  His  imagination  carried  him  into  a future 
state  of  wealth  and  luxury. 

An  ambition  had  been  born  to  Jose  — an  ambition 
to  own  the  scale.  He  vowed  that  with  the  help  of 
his  patron  saint  he  would  earn  the  money  to  purchase 
it.  He  would  work  harder  than  he  had  ever  worked 
in  his  life.  One  of  the  most  valuable  possessions  a 
man  can  have  is  an  honest  ambition  — a future  some- 
thing to  attain.  Jose’s  new  ambition,  unreasonable 
as  it  may  seem,  brought  to  him  energy,  hope,  and  a 
fresh  view  of  life.  It  crowded  out  the  old  broodings 
that  were  eating  away  his  soul.  For  the  first  time 
within  his  remembrance  he  felt  the  thrill  of  hopeful 
happy  existence. 

On  his  way  home  in  the  evening  he  stopped  again 
before  the  window  of  the  plaza  shop  to  feast  his  eyes 
upon  the  coveted  scale,  and  the  desire  to  handle  and 
caress  it,  and  call  it  his  own,  grew  strong  within  him. 
When  he  reached  home  that  night,  he  said  to  his  wife: 


116  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


“Good  wife,  I saw  a jeweller’s  scale  in  a window  as 
I went  to  work  this  morning,  and  as  I came  home 
to-night  I saw  it  again,  and  it  has  charmed  me.  I 
must  buy  it  and  have  it  for  my  own.” 

“But,  husband,  what  would  you  do  with  a jeweller’s 
scale?”  she  asked.  “It  is  a very  foolish  notion  you 
have  got  into  your  head.  It  would  be  but  a plaything 
for  you,  and  you  are  not  a child  to  have  playthings. 
We  have  not  the  money  to  buy  it.  We  need  all  you 
earn  for  bread.” 

“I  do  not  know,  wife,  what  I would  do  with  it,”  he 
admitted,  “but  it  has  cast  a spell  over  me.  I shall 
never  be  happy  until  I own  it.  Something  tells  me 
it  possesses  a magic  charm  to  make  my  fortune  for 
me.” 

Day  after  day  as  Jose  passed  and  repassed  the  shop 
window  he  stopped  to  gaze  at  the  scale.  More  and 
more  its  fascination  grew.  He  had  now  but  one  object 
in  life  — to  possess  the  scale.  He  pinched  and  saved, 
bit  by  bit,  and  gradually  his  savings  grew.  It  was 
hard,  for  his  wages  were  small.  He  denied  himself 
the  simplest  necessities  of  life,  he  starved  himself; 
but  he  was  happy,  for  the  coins  he  saved  were  increas- 
ing in  number.  Every  day  he  counted  and  gloated 
over  his  little  hoard,  and  all  the  while  was  in  mortal 
fear  lest  morning  or  evening  the  window  would  be 
empty;  and  each  time  when  he  saw  his  precious  scale 
still  there,  his  heart  leaped  with  joy. 

Weeks  and  months  passed,  and  at  length  the  fate- 
ful day  arrived  when  he  had  enough  money  for  his 
purpose.  It  was  the  happiest  moment  of  his  life 
when  he  stepped  boldly  into  the  jeweller’s  store  and 
proudly  bore  away  the  coveted  prize. 


THE  FIESTA  OF  ALL  SOULS 


117 


The  scale  finally  in  his  possession  Jose  sought  out 
the  landlord  of  a small  vacant  shop  not  far  away,  and 
said  to  him : 

“Senor,  I want  to  rent  your  shop.  I have  no  money 
to  pay  the  rent,  but  this  magic  scale  will  make  money 
for  me,  if  only  I have  a place  to  house  it,  and  then  I 
can  pay  you.” 

“What  are  you  to  stock  your  shop  with,  Jose?” 
asked  the  landlord,  who  knew  Jose  well. 

“I  have  nothing,  senor,  to  stock  it  with,  but  this 
scale,  and  I need  nothing  else,  for  the  scale  is  charmed 
and  it  will  bring  me  much  money.” 

“Well,  Jose,  as  the  shop  is  vacant  you  may  go  into 
it  with  your  scale,  to  keep  the  rats  away  until  I find 
a tenant.” 

So  Jose  set  up  his  scale  in  the  shop.  Every  morning 
before  he  went  to  work,  and  every  evening  as  he 
returned,  he  spent  an  hour  with  his  scale.  He  had 
acquired  the  habit  of  saving  money.  Gradually  an- 
other stock  of  small  coins  accumulated,  and  he  had 
them  with  him  one  evening  as  he  sat  in  his  shop 
admiring  the  scale,  when  an  Indian  entered. 

“Do  you  buy  gold,  senor?”  asked  the  Indian. 

“Si,  senor,”  answered  Jose,  though  he  did  not  know 
why  he  answered  so,  for  he  had  so  little  money. 

The  Indian  offered  some  yellow  dust.  Jose  weighed 
it  on  the  scale,  and  gave  the  Indian  all  he  had  in 
exchange  for  it. 

The  following  day  he  sold  the  dust  at  a large  profit, 
and  thenceforth  went  no  more  to  work,  but  sat  by 
his  scale  and  waited  for  Indians  to  come  with  gold 
dust.  Every  day  they  came,  and  Jose,  buying  and 
selling,  gradually  grew  rich.  He  lived  in  a fine  house 


118  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


now,  he  ate  the  best  of  food,  he  bedecked  himself  and 
his  wife  in  good  clothes  and  jewellery;  he  enjoyed  all 
the  things,  in  fact,  that  he  had  so  envied  others  the 
possession  of  in  the  days  of  his  poverty,  and  in  the 
manner  of  humans,  he  looked  with  contempt  upon  his 
former  peon  companions. 

But  with  riches  came  enlarged  greed  and  dissatis- 
faction. Like  most  rich  men,  Jose  wanted  to  be  still 
richer.  "Now,”  said  he,  "if  I could  only  find  the 
place  where  the  Indians  dig  the  gold,  I could  get  it 
all  for  myself”;  and  he  made  eveiy  effort  to  induce 
them  to  disclose  to  him  their  secret,  but  they  would 
not. 

Then  Jose  bethought  himself  of  a good  padre  who 
might  help  him,  and  to  the  good  father  he  went  with 
his  plan.  The  padre  was  to  be  kind  to  the  Indians  and 
get  their  confidence,  as  only  a padre  can,  and  as  their 
father  confessor  go  with  them  to  their  mines  and 
fathom  the  secret  of  where  the  gold  was  hidden.  After 
this  was  accomplished  Jose  and  the  padre  would 
gather  great  quantities  of  the  gold  and  be  richer  than 
any  in  the  land. 

The  good  father  thought  it  a very  fine  plan,  and  at 
once  set  about  to  ingratiate  himself  with  the  Indians. 
He  worked  well  into  their  confidence,  but  the  one 
thing  he  wished  to  know  most  of  all  they  would  not 
tell  him.  For  a long  while  they  were  deaf  to  his 
entreaties  to  take  him  into  the  mountains  with  them. 
He  told  them  how  he  loved  them,  and  how  lonely  he 
was  without  them,  and  how  very  unkind  it  was  of 
them  to  leave  him  behind  when  they  went  to  their 
diggings. 

All  this  had  its  effect  in  time  upon  the  Indians,  and 


THE  FIESTA  OF  ALL  SOULS 


119 


one  day  when  they  were  preparing  for  a journey,  they 
invited  the  padre  to  go  with  them,  but  required  that 
his  eyes  be  bandaged  so  that  even  he  should  not  know 
the  trail  they  travelled.  This  requirement  was  not 
agreeable  to  the  good  padre,  but  he  had  a plan.  He 
filled  his  pockets  with  corn,  and  as  he  rode  along  on 
his  ass  he  dropped  a grain  every  few  feet.  “God  has 
made  this  land  fertile,”  said  he  to  himself,  “and  the 
corn  will  grow,  and  in  a few  weeks  I can  trace  the  road 
by  the  green  stalks.” 

When  they  reached  the  end  of  their  journey,  which 
was  much  shorter  than  he  had  expected,  the  padre’s 
eyes  were  undone,  and  lo!  he  was  by  a stream  in  a 
canyon,  and  the  bed  of  the  stream  was  yellow!  Before 
him  lay  a mass  of  shining,  shimmering  gold  that  could 
be  gathered  by  the  handful!  The  Indians  permitted 
the  good  padre  to  feast  his  eyes,  and  presented  him 
with  several  fine  nuggets.  They  were  in  a part  of 
the  mountains  where  the  padre  had  never  been  before. 
There  was  not  a landmark  that  he  could  recognize, 
but  as  he  rode  back,  blindfolded,  upon  the  ass  after 
several  days’  sojourn  in  the  canyon,  he  slapped  his 
back  metaphorically,  in  deep  satisfaction  at  the  way 
he  had  outwitted  the  simple,  unsophisticated  Indians 
with  his  easy  trick  of  the  corn.  Oh,  yes!  the  corn 
would  lead  him  there  and  then  he  would  gather  in 
all  those  riches  for  himself  — and  Jose,  too,  if  he  could 
not  get  rid  of  Jose. 

Finally  they  reached  the  padre’s  home  in  Tepic,  and 
when  the  blind  was  removed  from  his  eyes  there  came 
a surprise.  An  Indian  held  out  to  him  a bag  and 
said: 

“Good  father,  here  is  some  corn  you  lost  from  your 


120  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


pocket  as  you  travelled.  I gathered  it  up  carefully 
for  you,  and  it  is  all  here.” 

One  day  not  long  after  the  padre’s  return,  Jose  was 
seen  stealthily  following  the  Indians  to  the  mountains. 
Whether  he  found  the  golden  stream  or  not  no  one 
ever  knew.  He  did  not  return. 

Down  in  the  town  Mr.  Hildebrand  and  I traversed 
the  chief  streets  and  drove  out  to  the  mills  where  much 
of  the  native  cotton  is  manufactured  into  the  coarse 
fabrics  worn  by  the  peon  class.  Here  is  very  good 
water  power  with  which  the  mills  are  operated. 

When  I was  at  length  set  down  at  the  hotel  I found 
the  others  waiting  for  me.  They  announced  that  they 
had  purchased  tickets  for  the  theatre,  where  a travel- 
ling dramatic  company  was  to  produce  “El  Soldado 
de  San  Marcial,”  a melodrama  in  five  acts.  Would 
I go?  Of  course  I would.  Like  the  others  I wanted 
to  see  what  a Mexican  theatre  was  like. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


A TRAGEDY  IN  FIVE  ACTS 

THE  play  was  not  to  begin  until  eight  o’clock, 
and  with  an  hour  and  a half  at  our  disposal, 
after  supper  we  settled  comfortably  under 
the  patio  balcony  to  smoke  and  chat,  in  the  hope  that 
we  might  make  the  acquaintance  of  two  other  Ameri- 
cans whom  we  had  glimpsed  in  the  dining-room  earlier 
in  the  evening.  It  gives  one  a homelike  feeling  to 
meet  and  exchange  experiences  with  one’s  country- 
men in  a foreign  land,  where  every  one  is  speaking 
an  alien  tongue  and  has  no  interests  in  common  with 
oneself.  We  were  not  disappointed  in  our  expecta- 
tions. The  two  gentlemen  presently  strolled  along, 
as  we  had  hoped  they  would,  apparently  as  anxious 
to  meet  us  as  we  were  to  meet  them,  and  mutual 
introductions  put  us  quickly  upon  terms  of  goodfel- 
lowship. 

One  was  a nephew  of  the  famous  Confederate 
Colonel  Mosby,  and  himself  an  engineer  who  had  been 
more  or  less  closely  connected  with  all  the  great  rail- 
road operations  in  Eastern  Mexico.  He  was  at  the 
time  one  of  the  chief  engineers  superintending  the 
running  of  lines  for  the  new  Southern  Pacific  exten- 
sion through  Western  Mexico.  For  several  weeks 
Mr.  Mosby  had  been  stationed  in  the  miasmal  swamps 
of  the  lower  country,  where  he  had  contracted  calen- 
tura,  and  he  had  now  come  to  Tepic  to  convalesce 

121 


122  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


and  recuperate  his  strength.  The  other  was  a miner, 
a devil-may-care  sort  of  fellow,  named  McKenna, 
who  announced  that  fate  had  thrown  him  into  Tepic 
five  years  before,  and  he  had  not  been  able  to  get 
away  since  because  his  mule  went  lame,  and  he  would 
not  risk  his  life  in  the  stage.  He  was  loafing  around 
and  waiting  for  the  railroad  to  come  and  take  him 
home  to  the  United  States. 

At  Hildebrand’s  they  had  expressed  a strong  lack 
of  faith  in  ever  seeing  the  railroad  in  Tepic;  but  the 
Germans  in  Mexico  are  extremely  jealous  of  American 
enterprise,  and  decry  American  projects  on  every 
occasion.  They  can  hardly  be  blamed  for  this,  for 
it  is  hard  to  see  another  nation  making  inroads  upon 
trade  that  has  been  built  up  through  years  of  effort 
and  which  has  become  more  or  less  monopolized. 
Mosby  assured  me,  however,  that  all  the  doubts  were 
without  basis,  that  the  last  survey  had  been  made, 
and  the  location  engineers  were  now  rushing  their 
final  work  through;  that  track  was  being  laid  in  the 
north,  a large  construction  camp  erected  at  Mazatlan, 
and  all  the  funds  in  hand  to  carry  the  work  to  quick 
completion.  This  I later  verified. 

McKenna,  noticing  that  I filled  my  pipe  with  tobacco 
from  cigarettes,  exclaimed: 

"What,  no  pipe  tobacco!  Come  with  me  and  I’ll 
show  you  where  to  get  the  finest  weed  cut  you  ever 
turned  into  smoke.” 

"I  didn’t  know  there  was  any  to  be  had  in  this 
part  of  the  country,”  I explained. 

"Yes,”  said  he,  "there  are  two  or  three  of  us  gringos 
here  most  of  the  time,  and  we  had  to  have  pipe  tobacco, 
so  we  sent  all  the  way  to  New  Orleans  for  a tobacco 


A TRAGEDY  IN  FIVE  ACTS 


123 


cutter,  presented  it  to  a cigar  maker,  and  instructed 
him  how  to  cure  and  cut  the  tobacco.” 

He  took  me  down  across  the  plaza  into  a side  street 
and  into  a small  shop,  and  introducing  me  to  the 
Mexican  tobacconist  requested  him  to  sell  me  a kilo 
from  the  precious  Americano  brand.  For  the  kilo  — 
something  over  two  pounds  — I paid  the  ridiculously 
low  price  of  one  peso,  and  with  it  made  many  a longing 
American  happy  all  the  way  from  Tepic  to  Durango, 
besides  having  plenty  for  my  own  use,  for  it  was  very 
strong  and  a little  of  it  went  a long  way. 

As  McKenna  and  I strolled  back  along  the  poorly 
lighted  outskirts  of  the  square,  he  stopped  to  purchase 
some  limes  from  an  old  woman  squatting  upon  the 
sidewalk. 

“Dos  reales,  senor,”  said  she. 

"Look  at  me,  senora,”  requested  McKenna,  in 
Spanish,  "Look  at  me  and  see  who  I am,  and  then  tell 
me  the  price.” 

She  looked,  and  the  price  at  once  dropped  from 
twenty-five  to  three  centavos. 

"The  old  senora,”  explained  McKenna,  as  we  walked 
away,  "knows  me  well,  and  is  aware  that  I know  the 
price  of  things,  but  she  had  heard  your  party  was  in 
town,  and  in  the  dark  she  thought  I was  one  of  you. 
It ’s  always  the  way  with  them.  Three  centavos  was 
the  regular  market  price  for  those  limes.  Innocent 
gringos  need  a guardian  to  save  them  from  being 
fleeced  when  they  travel  in  Mexico.” 

The  performance  at  the  theatre  was  billed  to  begin 
at  eight  o’clock,  and  we  reached  there  a little  ahead 
of  time,  for  we  wished  to  see  the  people  come  in,  and 
to  study  the  styles.  The  playhouse  is  a new  one, 


124  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


and  the  most  modern  building  in  Tepic.  Its  filigree 
work  and  newness,  however,  do  not  harmonize  well 
with  the  old,  substantial  structures  surrounding  it, 
and  it  rather  grates  upon  one’s  sensibilities  and  notion 
of  the  fitness  of  things.  It  is  called  the  “Teatro 
Porfirio  Diaz,”  in  honor  of  the  President. 

Along  the  sidewalk  soldiers  were  drawn  up,  giving 
the  coming  performance  an  air  of  importance,  and 
the  ever  present  venders  lined  the  sidewalk,  offering 
cakes  and  other  edibles  for  sale,  while  the  usual  mob 
of  zerape-clad  men  filled  the  street. 

At  the  door  our  tickets  were  taken  and  we  were 
turned  over  to  the  usher,  a unique  character,  who 
attempted  to  assume  the  reckless  bearing  of  the 
American  cowboy,  as  that  individual  is  pictured  in 
fiction.  He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  wore  a soft 
felt  hat  well  back  upon  his  head  and  to  one  side, 
while  he  swaggered  up  and  down  with  an  air  of  bravado 
and  importance  pleasant  to  see,  and  which  made  him 
a feature  of  the  entertainment.  We  were  seated,  at 
our  request,  in  the  centre  of  the  orchestra,  a position 
that  gave  us  an  opportunity  to  view  the  arrivals.  The 
orchestra  was  filled  with  rough  wooden  benches,  but 
the  boxes  on  both  sides  of  the  orchestra  floor  and  sur- 
rounding the  first  balcony  were  void  of  seating  accom- 
modations. The  occupants  brought  their  own  chairs 
with  them. 

We  were  the  first  arrivals,  but  presently  the  audience 
began  to  file  in.  In  the  orchestra  seats,  where  we 
were,  the  men  did  not  remove  their  big  sombreros, 
until  after  the  performance  had  begun,  but  in  the 
boxes  they  were  more  polite  in  this  respect.  A young 
lieutenant,  gold  lace,  sword  and  all,  occupied  one  of 


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jCompafua  C6mico^Lfrica-Dram^tica  ANITA  MARTINEZ, 

,^<a^RajO  la  dlrtceton  del  pHmcr  actor  senor  ANTOVIO  VICO. 


®eT Domingo  3 de  novierrjbre  de 
^-^_DOS  GRANDES  FUNCIONES.. 


1907. 


FOR  LA.TARDE,  el  grsudioeo  drama  en  7 actoa 


SON  JUAN  TENORIO. 

^ Con  el  ml^trtO  ftEPARTQ.y,^ 

Of  Of  4 A mitad  de  precios!  Of  Of 


Flate<tt  y Paleot  loo $ 3 00. 

Lurtet*  coo  ofttnxln 0 DO, 

Palcos  *20t.  con  entrada. ......... , 0 DO. 


Golert*  •. _$0  1’V 

Kdiooroo  delantefd?  de  galena. .' H OCfu 


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vaPOR  LA.  NOOHK^-' 

El  uitereKflote  melodrama  en  cuatro  actos  y ua  (h-filogo,  inspirado  «o  unn  CiJffiWMebre,  tituladcfc 

EL  SOLDADO 

<^s55s>— 

SANMARCIAL 

Sn.Aim'A:fWXNK?.J^^TjSlic^n.  ••  ; -;jV  Sf.  VICO. 

VaWi™*0 Nifia  N.  Ldzaro  (Conde  d*.1*  UJ«‘K * ; Sr.  Huerta*. 

UanmMA  Snta.  Berumen.  \ J Marques  de  Udal£ 7.  t rf* • rt  ? . , .^T- 

Tr.r..:. r::::.** &: 

TfTULO  DE  LOS  ACTOS. 

*•  B»*»««*1do.~2.*  Ls  acusocion — 3.°  La  cuerda  d©  presldiarios.— BI  fatso  Conde  de  li  Uji*. 

, 5.^RchabIHtacI6n  del  loocent©  y castlgo  deb  malvado. 

Daudo  fin  la  tuncioD  ceo  fa  bonit*  corned^  en  ea  aoto.  de  Miguel  Echegaray,  deneminada; 

-- «4^Champagne  Frappe&«e»- 

Deteihpefiadrrpor^Ss  aeflora*  Adit©  MortTnez,  Martifiej  (C)  y el  aefior  Vico. 

a lo8 


iiOjo 

Platen*  y Palco*  lo*.  con  5 entradas. 

Lnneta  „ 

Palcos  2os.  con  entrada 

Oaleda 

Ndmero8  dclaoteros  de  Galeda. 


precios  de  entrada!! 


Siguen  ensayindose  las  herraealsimaa  obra* 


s c oo 

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Juan  Jose.  La  Mujet  Adulterer  y Chucho  el  Roto. 


7 4 T A mrfc  * . 

■»  ■“  LA  TRAPJ3RA. 

Facsimile  of  playbill  for  performance  at  Teatro 
“ Porfirio  Diaz  ” 


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128  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


the  lower  boxes  nearly  opposite  our  seats.  The  elite 
of  Tepic  society  filled  the  boxes,  — ladies  in  flimsy 
white  dresses,  lace  mantillas  on  their  heads,  and  plenty 
of  powder  on  their  faces  to  modify  their  complexions, 
chatting  with  their  escorts,  and  full  of  vivacity.  We 
soon  learned  that  the  orchestra  seats  were  tabooed 
by  society,  and  we  were  amongst  the  outcasts,  the 
common  plebeians  of  a class  just  above  the  peon.  It 
was  nearly  nine  o’clock  before  the  music  struck  up, 
and  then  began  stamping  of  feet,  clapping  of  hands, 
shouting  and  cat  calls  from  the  gallery.  It  was  the 
same  old  gallery  we  all  know.  One  finds  it  in  New 
York,  in  San  Francisco,  and  here  in  Mexico  without 
a whit  of  difference  in  make-up.  In  this  respect,  at 
least,  all  cities,  all  nations,  all  races  are  akin. 

At  nine  o’clock  the  curtain  rose.  On  the  stage 
black-cloaked  men,  their  faces  concealed  to  the  eyes, 
sat  on  chairs  and  talked  and  talked.  Then,  a woman 
came  in  and  talked,  and  a priest  or  two,  but  there  was 
little  or  no  action  during  the  first  two  acts.  Things 
woke  up  a bit  then,  and  they  began  to  kill  one  another 
off,  to  the  delighted  howls  of  the  gallery.  Before 
the  bloody  scenes  opened  some  one  came  down  to  the 
lieutenant  in  the  box  and  borrowed  his  sword,  with 
which  to  slay  villains,  and  the  sword  was  gladly 
loaned.  They  did  the  killing  solemnly  and  with 
precision,  usually  in  polite  terms  informing  the  victim 
that  he  was  about  to  die,  while  the  dead  ones  reap- 
peared in  changed  costumes,  to  be  slain  again.  After 
seven  apparently  inoffensive  people  — but,  I sup- 
pose, really  dark-dyed  villains  — had  been  sacrificed, 
some  of  them  twice  Or  thrice,  we  withdrew.  It  is  sad 
to  see  a man  die  more  than  once,  very  sad,  even  if  he 


A TRAGEDY  IN  FIVE  ACTS 


127 


is  a bad  man.  The  sadness  impressed  itself  upon  us 
to  such  an  extent  that  copious  tears  trickled  down  the 
hardened  cheeks  of  Emerson  and  Randall  as  we  filed 
out  at  half-past  twelve  in  the  morning.  We  could 
stand  no  more  of  it.  Four  more  had  to  die,  and  there 
was  no  telling  how  long  it  would  take  to  dispose  of 
them.  We  heard  the  people  going  home  at  some- 
thing after  two  o’clock,  however,  so  they  apparently 
slaughtered  the  last  batch  of  victims  in  a hurry. 

Sunday  morning  Randall,  Bigelow,  and  I looked  up 
the  post-office.  Randall  declined  to  go  in  with  me 
to  act  as  interpreter  — I had  cast  too  many  reflections 
on  his  Spanish  — so,  thrown  upon  my  own  resources, 
I entered  the  building  and  approached  the  stamp 
window.  A good-natured  senorita  came  forward. 

“Buenos  dias,  senorita,”  I remarked  pleasantly. 
“Tray  deuces  and  tray  cincos.”  I thought  she 
ought  to  understand  that. 

“Buenos  dias,  senor,”  said  she,  and  something  else 
I did  not  catch. 

“Postales  tray  stamps  and  letra  tray.” 

She  looked  at  me  mystified,  and  timidly  asked  me 
something.  I did  not  know  what  she  asked,  but  the 
way  she  looked  at  me  made  me  forget  to  talk  Spanish, 
and  I blurted  out, 

“Madam,  may  I have  three  two-cent  and  three 
five-cent  stamps?” 

“Oh,  si,  senor,”  said  she  smiling.  “I  knowa  the 
Ingles  but  nota  the  French.” 

I bought  my  stamps  and  enjoyed  a pleasant  chat 
with  her.  She  told  me  that  she  had  studied  a little 
English  and  could  understand  it  very  well,  though 
she  knew  she  could  not  speak  it  nicely.  I assured 


128  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


her  she  spoke  it  with  a very  pretty  accent,  but  I had 
not  sufficient  temerity  to  confess  that  it  was  Spanish, 
not  French,  in  which  I had  attempted  to  address  her. 

Upon  our  return  to  the  hotel,  we  found  Ramos 
there.  He  brought  us  the  startling  information  that 
cholera  had  broken  out  at  Mazatlan — startling  be- 
cause we  were  to  go  there,  and  it  would  be  incon- 
venient to  be  held  up  by  a tedious  quarantine. 
However,  it  was  only  a rumor  as  yet,  and  there  would 
be  plenty  of  time  to  verify  it. 

There  was  music  that  evening  in  the  plaza,  and  all 
the  town  came  out  to  hear  it,  as  is  the  custom.  These 
musical  evenings  — Wednesday  and  Sunday  — are 
the  times  for  visiting  and  gossiping,  flirting  and 
love-making  by  the  people  of  high  and  low  degree 
alike.  The  bandstand  is  in  the  centre  and  seats  are 
distributed  at  convenient  intervals  among  the  trees 
and  flowery  bowers  of  the  plaza,  while  benches  line 
the  two  walks  that  surround  it.  One  of  these  walks 
is  used  by  the  “big  hats,”  or  peons,  the  other  by  the 
“big  bugs.”  We  walked  with  the  “big  bugs.”  When 
the  band  plays,  the  people  promenade;  when  it  ceases 
they  sit  down  upon  the  benches,  to  chat  until  the 
music  strikes  up  again.  Each  class  keeps  upon  its 
respective  walk.  The  women  promenade  in  one  direc- 
tion, the  men  in  the  other,  and  an  opportunity  is  thus 
given  for  flirtations  and  exchange  of  glances  as  they 
meet.  If  a “big  hat,”  by  any  chance,  is  bold  enough 
to  appear  upon  the  “big  bug”  side,  he  is  promptly 
recommended  by  a “big  bug”  or  a policeman  to  dis- 
appear, which  he  usually  does  forthwith,  for  he  knows 
by  experience  that  the  recommendation  is  made  for 
the  benefit  of  his  health,  and  he  regards  his  health. 


A TRAGEDY  IN  FIVE  ACTS 


129 


In  the  uncertain  illumination  of  the  electric  lights 
some  of  the  senoritas  appeared  very  attractive  in 
breezy,  fluffy  gowns  and  fetching  mantillas,  and  they 
knew  it  pretty  well,  too.  They  like  to  have  you  look 
at  them  directly  and  admiringly,  and  they  will  not 
drop  their  eyes.  If  you  have  the  nerve  to  give  one 
a look  of  this  kind  — such  a look  as  would  be  con- 
sidered extremely  rude  in  any  American  city  — the 
chances  are,  when  you  meet  her  on  the  next  turn  you 
will  be  rewarded  with  a smile  and  a challenge  from 
the  black  eyes,  and  if  you  have  a stock  of  nerve  in 
reserve,  you  will  speak  to  her  and  pay  her  some  com- 
plimentary remark  upon  the  first  opportunity  that 
offers.  This  is  good  breeding  and  will  not  be  resented. 
Should  you  then  become  infatuated  with  the  lady,  you 
will  search  out  her  home,  visit  her  barred  window  and 
mope  under  it  for  an  hour  or  so  every  morning;  and 
if  you  impress  her  favorably  she  will  make  your  heart 
glad  by  talking  with  you  through  the  bars,  or  handing 
little  scented  notes  to  you.  Should  you  become  really 
serious,  you  will  hire  a stringed  band  to  serenade  her 
at  night,  now  and  then. 

We  were  particularly  impressed  in  Tepic,  and  later 
at  Santiago  Ixcuintla,  by  the  mournful  character  of 
the  music.  Much  of  it  leaves  with  one  the  impression 
that  it  is  the  lamentation  of  a heart  filled  with  sorrow 
and  woe.  Amongst  the  peons  of  Tepic  Territory  one 
seldom  sees  a smiling  face.  Especially  is  this  true 
of  the  women.  I can  now  recall  but  one  smiling, 
happy  woman’s  face  that  I saw  there,  and  that  was 
the  round-faced  senorita  at  our  Navarrete  hotel. 
Mrs.  Wallace  told  me  that  she  had  done  much  chari- 
table visiting  amongst  them,  and  almost  universally 


130  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


the  peon  women  that  she  knew,  her  servants  included, 
had  expressed  the  wish  that  they  were  dead,  and  she 
was  certain  only  their  religion  prevents  many  of  them 
from  resorting  to  self-destruction.  They  are  slaves  — 
slaves  to  the  men,  who  are  hard  masters,  — slaves  to 
the  world  at  large.  Their  life  is  one  of  constant 
struggle,  and  there  is  little  of  joy  or  pleasure  that  they 
ever  know.  Work  from  daylight  till  dark,  then  sleep, 
then  work  again,  with  never  a day  of  rest  or  recreation 
in  all  the  tedious  years.  “Our  forefathers  committed 
a great  sin,  and  we  are  doing  penance  for  it,”  said  one. 
“Long,  long  ago  our  people  possessed  the  land,  and 
the  fruits  and  flowers  were  theirs,  and  they  were 
happy  and  gay.  Then  they  committed  this  sin,  and 
the  Lord  God  punished  them  for  it.  He  took  away 
the  lands,  and  made  them  work  as  slaves  for  other 
men.  We  are  doing  penance  for  that  sin  still,  but 
some  time  we  shall  come  into  our  own  again.  Per- 
haps it  is  not  for  us,  but  our  children  or  our  children’s 
children.” 

I wonder  if  the  mournful  music  is  an  echo  of  this 
feeling?  I wonder  if  the  Lord  God  ever  intended 
the  bloodthirsty  Spaniards  to  avenge  wrongs  done 
Him?  I wonder  if  the  Mexican  Government  will 
ever  throw  open  to  the  peons  the  broad,  fertile  acres 
of  idle  jungle,  and  make  of  these  people  home-builders 
and  thrifty  farmers? 


CHAPTER  XIV 


COMEDY  AND  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  TRAIL 

MIGUEL  had  our  horses  in  the  hotel  patio,  all 
saddled  and  bridled,  in  good  season  on 
Monday  morning,  and,  breakfast  eaten,  we 
mounted  and  rode  away  with  some  regret,  from  the 
clear,  cool  atmosphere  of  this  delightful  old  mountain 
town,  to  return  to  the  humidity  and  heat  of  the  lower 
altitudes. 

The  morning  was  fine  and  invigorating,  our  horses 
fresh  after  a two  days’  rest,  and  we  trotted  out  at  a 
smart  pace  upon  the  road  to  Navarrete,  chatting 
gayly  of  our  experiences  as  we  rode.  Over  to  the 
westward  we  could  see  the  mountains  that  hid  securely 
the  rich  gold  mines  from  which  the  Indians  used  to 
bring  the  nuggets  and  gold  dust,  which  the  padre  had 
so  vainly  endeavored  to  locate  by  subterfuge,  and  we 
laughed  as  we  thought  of  the  good  man’s  embarrass- 
ment when  his  corn  was  returned  to  him  with  so  much 
apparent  innocence  by  the  simple,  unsophisticated 
Indian.  At  Espino  we  remembered  the  story  of 
Lozado’s  execution  there  of  the  judge  and  the  thief, 
and  at  San  Louis,  another  village  by  the  way,  we  saw 
a cliff  over  which  the  same  Lozado  used  playfully  to 
suspend  federal  prisoners  at  the  ends  of  ropes. 

We  noticed  at  intervals  by  the  roadside  small  cairns, 
each  of  them  surmounted  by  a cross.  These,  we  were 
told,  indicated  places  where  people  had  met  sudden 

131 


132  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


death.  One  of  the  crosses,  of  quite  recent  origin, 
marked  the  spot  where  a woman  had  fallen  over  a 
cliff  one  night.  She  was  a passenger  in  the  stage- 
coach, and  to  relieve  herself  from  a cramped  position 
in  the  diligencia  descended  from  the  vehicle  to  walk 
up  a steep  incline.  The  road  here  overhangs  a preci- 
pice, and  in  the  darkness  the  unfortunate  woman,  fail- 
ing to  see  the  danger,  ventured  too  near  the  edge  and 
was  hurled  to  instant  death  upon  the  rocks  below. 
The  good-natured  stage-driver  erected  the  cross  to 
commemorate  the  occasion,  and  I suppose  it  quieted 
any  qualms  of  conscience  he  may  have  felt  for  his 
own  lack  of  care  of  his  passengers. 

It  was  early  in  the  afternoon  when  we  reined  up 
at  Navarrete,  but  too  late  to  attempt  the  still  miry 
road  to  Santiago  Ixcuintla  in  the  darkness,  which 
would  certainly  overtake  us  before  reaching  there,  so 
we  accepted  a hearty  invitation  to  spend  the  night 
at  the  now  familiar  hostelry.  Our  good  friends  who 
presided  over  it  had  learned  to  feel  a sort  of  proprietary 
interest  in  us.  I took  advantage  of  the  sunlight  that 
still  remained  to  use  my  camera,  and  the  round-faced 
laughing  senorita  asked  many  questions  about  it  in 
Spanish,  which  I could  not  understand.  I took  her 
by  the  hand  and  led  her  outside,  where  I could  place 
her  in  position  for  a portrait,  though  she  evinced  some 
fear  and  hesitancy  at  undergoing  the  ordeal.  Gates 
good-naturedly  put  his  sombrero  upon  her  head,  and 
when  I made  my  exposure  with  no  dire  results,  and 
she  found  she  had  survived  it  unscathed,  she  was 
mightily  pleased.  I thanked  her  cordially,  and  told 
her,  through  Gates,  as  interpreter,  that  I should  see 
her  again  and  have  great  pleasure  in  presenting  to 


The  ferry  at  Santiago  Ixcuintla 


Gardens  of  tuna  cactus 


COMEDY  AND  TRAGEDY 


133 


her  a copy  of  the  photograph,  a thing  which  she  did 
not  understand,  for  she  had  never  seen  a photograph, 
but  which  I have  no  doubt  she  looked  forward  to 
with  much  impatience  and  interest.  She  was  certain, 
she  assured  me,  it  must  be  something  wonderful. 

At  Navarrete  we  found  a Mexican  Jew  with  his 
mozo,  en  route  from  Tepic  to  Santiago  Ixcuintla  in 
a two-wheeled  cart  drawn  by  a horse.  The  Jewish 
gentleman  was  of  enormous  proportions.  Randall 
regretted  the  fact  that  he  had  no  moving  picture 
machine  to  photograph  the  pair,  when  we  saw  the 
mozo  dressing  his  master  in  the  morning.  The  per- 
formance would  certainly  have  brought  down  any 
American  house  had  it  been  possible  to  preserve  it 
on  films  for  future  exhibition.  They  started  from 
Navarrete  long  before  daylight,  and  we  overtook  them 
later  in  dire  straits.  The  cart  was  stuck  fast  in  the 
middle  of  a mud-hole,  the  Jew  would  not  get  out  of 
the  vehicle  into  the  mire,  and  he  was  emitting  loud 
and  voluble  Spanish  phrases,  with  intonations  that 
suggested  profanity;  but  my  unfamiliarity  with  the 
language  precludes  my  saying  that  the  utterances  were 
not  entirely  what  they  should  have  been  under  the 
circumstances.  The  mozo  was  just  returning  from  a 
near-by  ranch  house  with  a couple  of  borrowed  mules, 
to  snake  the  outfit  to  dry  land,  and  we  halted  to  make 
certain  that  the  unfortunate  one  was  duly  rescued 
before  we  rode  on.  We  did  not  see  them  again,  and 
whether  they  met  with  further  mishaps  I cannot  say. 

At  nine  o’clock  in  the  morning  we  crossed  the  ferry 
into  Santiago  Ixcuintla,  and  even  at  that  early  hour 
the  heat  had  become  so  intense  that  Randall  developed 
a dizziness  that  caused  me  some  concern,  and  made 


134  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


necessary  a short  halt  to  rest  and  cool  off  before  pro- 
ceeding the  fifteen  miles  to  the  ranch. 

Here  we  learned  incidentally  that  an  officer,  badly 
wounded  by  bandits,  had  just  been  brought  in  from 
the  hills  for  surgical  treatment.  There  was  no  notice- 
able excitement  over  the  occurrence,  such  as  one 
might  expect  in  a small  town  like  this,  upon  such  an 
event,  and  it  seemed  rather  to  be  accepted  as  a matter 
of  course,  and  all  in  a day’s  work. 

Back  in  the  hills,  a noted  bandit  had  been  holding 
up  travellers  and  occasionally  shooting  one.  He  had 
seventeen  murders  charged  against  him,  of  which  he 
was  very  proud,  it  was  said.  Two  or  three  days 
before  our  arrival,  a report  came  to  Santiago  Ixcuintla 
that  this  gentleman  was  operating  much  nearer  the 
town  than  usual,  and  an  officer,  with  a posse,  was 
despatched  to  round  him  up.  The  officer  posted  his 
men  near  the  point  where  the  brigand  was  supposed 
to  be  stopping,  and  with  one  man  rode  down  the  trail 
to  reconnoitre.  Suddenly  and  unexpectedly  he  came 
upon  the  desperado,  with  a companion,  and  instantly 
gun-play  commenced.  When  the  fight  was  over  the 
officer  was  badly  shot  up,  his  man  was  dead,  the  chief 
desperado  was  dead,  and  the  other  bad  man  had  dis- 
appeared in  the  direction  of  the  mountains. 

It  may  be  said  that  there  are  not  many  of  these 
occurrences  now.  The  Rurales,  or  mounted  police, 
have  pretty  nearly  put  a stop  to  brigandage.  Several 
years  ago,  during  the  presidency  of  Comonfort,  the 
Government  recognized  the  wisdom  of  the  old  adage 
“Set  a thief  to  catch  a thief,”  and  offered  pardon  and 
protection  to  all  brigands  who  would  come  in  and 
enlist  as  Rurales.  Most  of  them  took  advantage  of 


COMEDY  AND  TRAGEDY 


135 


the  offer,  and  with  these  men  on  the  side  of  law  and 
order,  holdups  soon  became  infrequent,  and  the 
Rurales  developed  into  a wonderfully  efficient  mounted 
force  to  hunt  down  bandits.  They  are  fearless  riders, 
they  know  every  mountain  pass  and  fastness,  and  when 
they  once  start  after  a man  he  is  pretty  sure  to  be 
caught  or  killed  — generally  killed.  The  Rurales  of 
Mexico  compare  favorably  in  bravery  and  reckless 
daring  with  that  wonderful  organization,  the  North- 
west Mounted  Police  of  Canada,  and  are  by  far  the 
best  armed  force  in  Mexico.  Their  calling  gives  them 
opportunity  for  wild  adventure,  and  thus  satisfies  the 
craving  for  a life  of  danger,  which  in  the  first  instance 
led  many  of  them  to  be  brigands.  They  are  a free  and 
easy  lot,  quite  in  contrast  to  the  peaceably  inclined 
policemen  of  the  towns,  and  the  slow-moving,  indolent 
soldiery  of  the  regular  army.  Their  pay  is  ten  reales 
(sixty-two  and  one-half  cents)  a day,  out  of  which 
they  provide  their  own  living  and  forage  for  their 
horses. 

In  the  fields  some  distance  beyond  the  point  where 
the  ranch  trail  left  the  main  road  to  follow  the  river, 
we  were  treated  to  a fine  exhibit  of  horsemanship. 
A body  of  fifteen  or  twenty  Mexican  cowboys,  or 
vaqueros,  as  they  are  called,  were  just  finishing  a round- 
up of  cattle.  Their  mounts  were  magnificent  animals 
and  well  trained,  and  it  was  a rare  entertainment  to 
see  them  dashing  in  and  out  and  over  the  rough  ground, 
the  men  swinging  their  lariats,  roping  cattle  with 
unerring  precision,  and  the  horses  bracing,  to  hold 
and  throw  the  steer  or  cow. 

That  night  as  we  sat  upon  the  patio  veranda  of  the 
Hacienda  San  Nicolas  we  became  sensible  of  a plain- 


136  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


tive  chanting  in  the  direction  of  the  Indian  village. 
We  had  heard  it  on  one  or  two  previous  evenings, 
before  our  excursion  to  Tepic,  but,  supposing  it  to 
be  a vent  to  the  musical  inspiration  of  the  natives, 
had  not  investigated  it.  This  evening,  however,  it 
continued  for  an  unusually  long  time  without  varia- 
tion, and  inquiry  was  made  as  to  its  meaning.  Kaiser 
informed  us  that  a rehearsal  was  in  progress  every 
night  until  midnight  for  a play  to  be  given  during 
the  Christmas  fiesta.  This  was  interesting,  and  we 
all  walked  out  to  witness  the  performance. 

Under  the  trees  in  the  Indian  village  a weird  and 
picturesque  scene  met  our  view.  At  a small  table 
sat  a man  with  an  open  book  before  him,  while  in  a 
semicircle  before  him  stood  all  the  men  and  women  of 
the  village,  and  within  the  semicircle,  directly  in  front 
of  the  man,  two  youths  were  sparring  with  sticks, 
and  at  the  same  time  chanting  sentences  after  the  man 
who  read  from  the  book.  All  the  men  were  wrapped 
in  their  colored  zerapes,  and  a single  torch  shed  an 
uncertain,  flickering  light  upon  the  scene,  showing 
bare  heads  and  dark  faces  in  outline.  They  were 
intensely  in  earnest,  and  the  spectacle  reminded  one 
of  savages  performing  some  rite.  It  was  a scriptural 
allegory  they  were  rehearsing.  One  of  the  men  with 
sticks  represented  an  angel,  the  other  the  devil,  and 
the  angel  was  fighting  the  devil.  I think  the  devil 
was  vanquished,  though  we  did  not  stay  to  see  the 
result. 


CHAPTER  XV 


AMONGST  THE  LAGUNAS 

DOWN  by  the  sea,  hidden  amongst  a maze  and 
network  of  lagunas,  some  leagues  north  of 
San  Bias,  lies  the  ancient  Indian  village  of 
Mexcaltatan.  You  will  not  find  it  on  the  map,  and 
you  will  find  no  mention  of  it  in  the  official  reports  of 
Mexico,  for  in  that  respect,  at  least,  this  unique  relic 
of  the  past  seems  to  have  been  quite  forgotten  by  the 
Government,  though  its  shrimp  fisheries  make  it,  per- 
haps, the  most  important  town  of  its  size  in  the 
Republic. 

Mexcaltatan  was  originally  built  upon  piles  and 
hidden  in  this  secluded  spot  amongst  the  myriad  of 
lagunas,  which  are  characteristic  of  this  section  of 
the  western  coast,  to  protect  it  against  the  warlike 
Indians  of  the  mainland,  just  as  Tenochtitlan  was  built 
upon  piles  in  Tezcuco  Lake  as  a safe  retreat  from  the 
surrounding  tribes  with  which  the  Aztec  founders 
were  at  war.  Tradition  says  that  the  town  was  founded 
by  the  Aztecs,  in  the  course  of  their  migration  to  the 
southward,  and  that  it  is  therefore  older  than  Mexico 
City.  Of  this  no  man  can  know  for  a certainty. 
The  Spaniards  and  their  priests  of  the  Conquest,  in 
blind,  unreasoning  bigotry,  so  effectually  destroyed  all 
records  of  ancient  Mexico  that  the  country’s  history  is 
veiled  behind  a curtain  of  deepest  mystery  through 
which  no  eye  can  see,  and  her  past  will  forever  remain 
silent.  But  one  is  brought  very  close  indeed,  in  fancy, 

137 


138  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


at  least,  to  those  forgotten  ages,  and  that  vanquished 
people,  as  one  traverses  to-day  the  streets  of  this  Mexi- 
can Venice  in  primitive  dugout  canoes,  in  the  same 
manner  as  her  founders  did  those  centuries  ago,  and 
realizes  that  it  is  the  only  one  of  the  old  pile-built  vil- 
lages now  remaining  on  the  North  American  continent. 

All  plans  for  an  expedition  there,  including  arrange- 
ments for  a canoe  to  meet  us  at  the  end  of  the  main- 
land trail,  had  been  made  by  Kaiser  during  our  absence 
in  Tepic.  He,  Randall,  Emerson,  and  I,  with  our 
mozo  Miguel,  rode  out  to  Santiago  Ixcuintla  the  after- 
noon following  our  return,  putting  up  that  night  at 
the  Hotel  Sur  Pacifico,  in  order  that  we  might  be  well 
on  the  road  and  get  away  in  good  season  in  the  morn- 
ing, for  we  wished,  if  possible,  to  reach  Mexcaltatan 
before  dark  the  next  evening.  We  knew  nothing  of 
the  character  of  the  trails,  and  could  only  calculate 
approximately  the  distance,  or  the  time  that  would  be 
required  for  the  journey. 

This  was  the  first  of  our  trips  upon  which  Kaiser  had 
joined  us,  and  a jolly  good  companion  he  proved.  He 
knew  every  peasant  on  the  road,  and  every  shopkeeper 
and  official  in  town.  For  this  one  he  had  a pleasant 
word,  for  that  one  a jovial  greeting,  and  for  another 
a courteous  bow,  or  the  Mexican  embrace.  In  his 
ten  years’  wanderings  over  the  country  he  had  visited 
nearly  every  town  of  importance,  and  wherever  he 
went  was  sure  to  make  friends.  He  proved  a master 
of  suavity,  polite  compliments,  or  bluff  cordiality,  as 
circumstances  demanded.  A German  by  birth,  he 
could  speak  English  as  perfectly  as  his  mother  tongue, 
with  scarcely  a noticeable  accent,  and  he  had  at  his 
command  all  of  our  latest,  up-to-date  slang  phrases, 


AMONGST  THE  LAGUNAS 


139 


which  he  would  use  copiously  at  one  moment  and  the 
next  would  perhaps  be  quoting  some  ancient  classic 
or  expounding  philosophy.  His  father  is  a professor  in 
a German  university,  and  he  is  himself  a university- 
bred  man.  His  Spanish  is  as  good  as  his  English, 
and  he  understands,  also,  three  or  four  of  the  native 
Indian  dialects. 

We  engaged  a native  to  guide  us  to  the  Mexcaltatan 
canoe  landing,  and  in  the  fresh,  dewy  morning  rode 
forth  from  Santiago  Ixcuintla  on  the  trail  to  the  sea. 
In  mid-forenoon,  and  near  the  siesta  hour,  we  passed 
through  the  ancient  town  of  Santos  Pac,  where  a Span- 
ish convent,  long  since  deserted,  lies  in  picturesque 
ruins.  The  hovel-lined  streets  of  the  village  wrere 
empty,  save  for  an  occasional  dog  which  wearily 
foraged  for  refuse.  “Only  dogs  and  gringos,”  say  the 
Mexicans,  “have  so  little  sense  as  to  expose  them- 
selves to  the  burning  rays  of  a tropical  midday  sun.” 

For  a considerable  distance  beyond  Santos  Pac  the 
trail  was  well  shaded  by  a dense  growth  of  ferns  and 
palms  and  tropical  trees,  to  the  point  where  we  entered 
the  naked  marismas  to  flounder  down  over  a miry 
stretch  to  the  water’s  edge.  Here  stood  a scrubby 
and  solitary  tree,  under  the  uncertain  shade  of  which 
we  deposited  our  belongings  and  stretched  ourselves 
to  breathe  the  grateful  salt  air  and  await  the  expected 
canoe,  while  our  guide  and  mozo  returned  with  the 
horses  to  Santos  Pac,  with  instructions  to  come  for 
us  at  three  o’clock  the  following  day. 

A bare-legged  Mexican  in  a dugout  canoe  was  just 
poling  away  with  a cargo  of  merchandise  for  Mexcal- 
tatan, and  we  sat  and  watched  him  disappear  around 
a turn  in  the  laguna.  No  other  life  was  visible  in  the 


140  BEYOND  THE  MEXIGAN  SIERRAS 


wide  stretch  of  swamp,  which  reaches  away  toward 
the  distant  mountains  rising  in  blue  grandeur  to  the 
eastward. 

These  low  lands,  termed  marismas,  are  character- 
istic of  the  Tepic  and  Sinaloa  coasts.  During  the 
rainy  period  they  are  subject  to  inundation  by  high 
tides  and  the  overflow  of  rivers.  When  the  rains 
cease,  at  the  close  of  September,  the  powerful  rays  of 
the  tropical  sun  quickly  dry  them,  and  then  the  few 
trails  that  lead  down  from  the  upland  to  the  sea 
become  passable  for  mules,  though  generally  muddy 
and  difficult  to  traverse.  The  marismas  are  ideal 
breeding-places  for  mosquitoes,  and  at  all  times  reek 
with  malarial  germs,  and  are  exceedingly  unhealthful. 
Behind  them  the  foothills  rise  and  bank  away  into 
the  lofty  ranges  of  the  Sierra  del  Nayarit  and  the 
Sierra  de  Alica,  which  extend  north  and  south  through 
the  centre  of  Tepic  Territory,  in  continuation  of  the 
Sierra  Madres. 

Our  scrubby  tree  offered  but  indifferent  protection 
from  the  sun’s  rays,  mosquitoes  were  exceedingly 
annoying,  and  our  position  was  becoming  anything 
but  pleasant,  when,  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour,  an 
Indian  suddenly  appeared  as  though  he  had  risen  out 
of  the  earth.  From  a grass-thatched  shed  a little 
distance  away  he  had  observed  us,  and  in  kindly 
hospitality  came  to  our  relief.  Would  the  senors  wait 
for  their  canoe  under  the  poor  shelter  of  his  roof? 
It  was  very  hot  out  here  in  the  open  swamp.  Cer- 
tainly we  would,  and  we  were  very  grateful  for  his 
thoughtfulness  of  our  comfort. 

The  Indian  was  the  custodian  of  a store  of  dried 
shrimps,  which  were  piled  under  his  thatched  shed  to 


Under  the  uncertain  shade  of  one  scrubby  and  solitary  tree,  ire 
deposited  our  belongings  ” 


In  a dugout  canoe,  poling  away  with  a cargo  of  merchandise 


AMONGST  THE  LAGUNAS 


141 


await  transportation  by  mule  train  to  the  interior 
markets.  They  were  put  up  in  bales  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  encased  in  palm  leaves  and  tied 
with  ropes  of  twisted  fibre.  We  had  eaten  no  dinner, 
and  thankfully  accepted  our  host’s  invitation  to  help 
ourselves  to  shrimps.  They  were  well  cured,  and  with 
sharpened  appetities  after  our  morning’s  ride,  we 
found  them  exceedingly  palatable. 

It  was  three  o’clock  when  two  canoemen  came  for 
us  with  a large  dugout.  They  had  been  sent  by  a 
merchant  of  the  town,  a friend  of  Kaiser’s  who  formerly 
resided  in  Tepic  City,  where  Kaiser  had  known  him, 
and  brought  a message  of  greeting  and  welcome.  We 
were  soon  seated  in  the  bottom  of  the  commodious 
craft,  and  with  one  man  at  the  bow  and  one  at  the 
stern  poled  out  through  a laguna  into  a wide  basin. 

The  water  was  teeming  with  fish,  which  jumped 
constantly  on  every  side.  Indeed  it  was  not  unusual, 
our  guides  informed  us,  for  fish  to  jump  into  canoes. 
Water  fowl  were  everywhere,  and  there  would  have 
been  no  difficulty  in  bagging  a boatload  of  duck,  had 
we  desired;  but  we  were  not  on  a hunting  expedition, 
and  they  were  left  undisturbed. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  our  canoe  entered  a maze 
of  beautiful  lagunas.  With  tropical  foliage  rising  high 
above  our  heads  on  either  side,  we  wound  our  way  in 
and  out  amongst  them,  until  finally  we  burst  through 
into  a wider  space  to  behold  La  Laguna  de  los  Siete 
Cielos  — The  Lake  of  the  Seven  Heavens.  The  banks 
were  lined  with  beautiful  lavender-hued  water-lilies, 
small  islands  of  them  floating  loose,  and  the  air  was 
charged  with  their  delicate  perfume.  This  lily  is 
known  as  La  Reina  del  Agua  (The  Queen  of  the  Water), 


142  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


and  certainly  deserves  its  name.  From  this  point  it 
lined  our  way  with  a profusion  of  blossoms.  We  were 
told  that  the  lilies  were  brought  down  in  masses  by 
the  rivers  from  interior  lakes,  during  the  rainy  season 
floods  — chiefly  through  the  Santiago  Rio  from  Lake 
Chapala  — and  floated  into  the  lagunas  when  the 
marismas  was  flooded. 

Peering  into  the  clear  waters  of  La  Laguna  de  los 
Siete  Cielos,  one  sees  at  the  bottom  what  is  apparently 
an  immense  pile  of  silver  money.  Gravely  our  canoe- 
men  informed  us  that  it  was  in  fact  real  money,  but 
lying  in  a place  encantado  (enchanted)  it  was  trans- 
formed into  shells  when  brought  to  the  surface.  Only 
those  who  possess  the  proper  charm  can  bring  the 
silver  up  unchanged.  Long,  long  ago  it  was  lost 
there  by  a Spanish  boat,  and  the  spirits  of  the  water 
enchanted  it,  and,  no  man  ever  learning  the  secret  and 
necessary  charm  to  enable  him  to  recover  it  unchanged, 
it  lies  there  still. 

In  and  out  we  turned  amongst  the  entrancing 
lagunas,  once  passing  through  a long  arch  of  man- 
groves called  by  the  natives  “El  Canon.”  No  one 
canoeman  knows  all  of  these  waterways,  and  it  could 
easily  be  imagined  how  a stranger  might  become 
hopelessly  entangled  and  lost  among  them.  Each 
has  its  individual  name,  like  the  street  of  a city,  and 
is  called  a calle  (street).  Trained  from  early  youth, 
the  native  boatman  learns  one  section  only,  and  never 
ventures  beyond  his  known  lagunas  unattended. 

Soon  we  saw  the  cimaron  (shrimp)  nets,  some  of 
twisted  reeds,  some  of  twine,  and  then  suddenly  swung 
into  a lake  in  the  centre  of  which,  lying  low  in  the 
water,  appeared  the  village  of  Mexcaltatan. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


MEXCALTATAN,  THE  MEXICAN  VENICE 

MEXCALTATAN  is  built  in  the  form  of  a cart- 
wheel, with  the  plaza  for  a hub,  and  canals, 
lined  with  huts  of  reeds  and  poles,  reaching 
up  to  it  like  spokes  from  the  outer  rim  of  water.  Very 
picturesque  and  entrancing  the  little  town  looked  as 
we  approached.  The  sun  was  just  dropping  behind 
the  lagunas  to  the  westward,  lighting  the  tops  of 
graceful  cocoanut  palms,  which  rose  high  above  the 
plaza,  and  setting  on  fire  the  red-tiled  roofs  of  gray 
huts  below,  while  murky  canals  beneath  lay  in 
deep  and  sombre  shadow.  A bit  of  old  Mexico,  soli- 
tary and  alone,  untouched  and  unmarred  by  the  march 
of  civilization,  it  seemed  to  breathe  something  of  the 
mystery  of  the  forgotten  days  of  its  founders. 

It  was  six  o’clock  when  we  landed.  The  tide  was 
out,  and  the  canals  were  now  naked  black  mud  and 
mire.  Under  the  guidance  of  the  canoemen,  we 
picked  our  way  along  a footpath  that  followed  one 
of  the  canals  to  the  plaza,  and  to  the  store  of  Kaiser’s 
friend,  Senor  Fortunato  Martin.  Senor  Martin  saw  us 
coming,  and  met  us  at  the  door  with  a most  sincere 
welcome.  He  and  Kaiser  fell  upon  each  other’s  necks, 
and  embraced,  before  our  formal  introduction  took 
place. 

When  we  were  finally  made  acquainted  with  our 
host  we  deposited  our  artillery  under  his  counter,  as 

143 


144  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


a mark  of  confidence  in  him,  and  to  show  the  world 
in  general  that  we  were  not  afraid  even  without  the 
protecting  influence  of  firearms.  Then  we  took  our 
way  across  town,  to  a hut  where  supper  had  been 
engaged  for  us. 

Our  arrival  had  been  heralded  broadcast.  Before 
we  had  gone  a block  our  progress  resembled  a circus 
band-wagon  parade,  and  I believe  every  child  in  the 
town  was  at  our  heels.  They  had  never  seen  a white 
man  before,  nor  people  attired  so  strangely,  and  we 
were  veritable  curiosities.  We  might  have  gone  on 
exhibition,  and  charged  an  admission  fee,  with  profit- 
able results. 

At  the  hut  where  we  were  to  eat,  a talkative  iron- 
gray  senora  received  us,  and  bade  us  in  Spanish,  “Sit 
down  — supper  would  be  ready  soon.”  She  was  quite 
puffed  up  with  pride  that  she  should  have  the  honor 
of  entertaining  us,  and  was  plainly  the  envy  of  two 
or  three  neighbor  women,  who  were  with  her  when  we 
came,  but  hurried  away  upon  our  entrance,  doubtless 
to  notify  the  folk  at  home  to  come  and  have  a peep 
at  the  curious-looking  strangers.  We  had  hardly 
seated  ourselves  when  we  discovered  the  place  to  be 
surrounded  on  all  sides  by  a crowd  of  men,  women,  and 
children,  old  and  young,  large  and  small,  peering  in 
at  us  through  the  cracks,  or  rather  bars,  of  the  hut, 
for  it  was  unplastered  and  resembled  more  a cage 
than  a house.  I realized  then  how  menagerie  monkeys 
must  feel,  if  they  feel  or  think  at  all,  when  on  exhi- 
bition before  gaping  crowds. 

Presently  supper  was  served,  consisting  of  three 
varieties  of  fish,  the  local  names  of  which  are  robolo, 
liza  mocho,  and  Constantino.  The  fish  was  exceedingly 


THE  MEXICAN  VENICE 


145 


well  cooked,  and  accompanied  by  tortillas  and  coffee. 
We  used  our  fingers  in  lieu  of  knives  and  forks, 
appendages  of  civilization  which  have  not  yet  been 
introduced  into  this  quiet  corner  of  the  world.  Fish 
is  naturally  the  food  staple  here,  and,  indeed,  but 
few  of  the  people  eat  meat  at  all,  many  of  them  never 
having  learned  its  taste,  excepting  perhaps  pork  and 
the  flesh  of  water  fowl.  The  latter  are  usually  so 
plentiful  and  tame  they  can  be  had  for  the  taking. 

We  dallied  over  our  meal,  and  when  at  length  we 
arose  to  go,  the  crowd  of  spectators  had  dwindled 
away  to  a few  stragglers.  This  was  a great  relief,  for 
modest  men  such  as  those  in  our  party  could  not  but 
feel  embarrassed  with  so  much  popularity  thus  unex- 
pectedly thrust  upon  them,  and  without  attendance 
we  quietly  stole  back  to  Senor  Martin’s. 

Here  we  were  introduced  to  his  bosom  friend,  the 
Jefe,  or  Mayor,  who  also,  I believe,  in  this  instance, 
acted  as  Prefecto.  The  J6fe,  like  Senor  Martin,  was 
a native  of  Tepic,  and,  like  him,  of  Indian  descent. 
He  is  the  ruler  of  Mexcaltatan,  while  Senor  Martin, 
his  adjoining  neighbor,  is  the  proprietor  of  a general 
store  and  gambling  resort.  Thus  the  two  are  the 
great  men  of  the  place. 

Presently  the  town  band  began  to  play  in  the  plaza, 
opposite,  and  the  two  gentlemen  informed  us  they 
had  employed  it  to  serenade  during  the  evening,  in 
honor  of  our  visit,  which  was  a great  event  in  the 
history  of  Mexcaltatan.  Only  twice  before,  we  were 
told,  within  a period  of  which  the  memory  of  man 
runneth  not  to  the  contrary,  had  white  men  trod  her 
streets. 

The  later  of  these  visits  had  been  ten  years  before 


146  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


when  a renegade  American  came  to  kill  the  beautiful 
birds  of  plumage,  principally  the  white  heron,  which 
were  then  very  numerous  here  and  so  tame  they  could 
be  knocked  over  with  sticks.  The  plumage  of  the  heron 
is  at  its  prime  during  the  hatching  season  and  this  was 
the  time  chosen  to  kill  them,  therefore  the  young  per- 
ished with  the  mother.  The  fellow  slaughtered  them 
by  thousands,  and  when  at  length,  Christian  patience 
exhausted,  the  Jefe  rose  up  in  his  wrath  against  the 
wanton  destruction,  and  stopped  it,  and  banished  the 
man  with  a stern  warning  never  to  return,  this  par- 
ticular species  of  bird  had  been  so  nearly  exterminated 
that  it  is  now  rarely  seen.  It  was  the  business  of  this 
criminal  to  kill  birds  for  aigrettes  to  adorn  our  ladies’ 
heads,  and  it  is  a question  in  my  mind  which  is 
the  greater  criminal,  the  man  who  kills  the  bird  for 
profit,  or  the  lady  who  wears  the  aigrette  to  satisfy 
her  vanity.  I call  them  criminals,  because  the  offence 
should  be  made  penal,  if  it  is  not.  Besides,  the  word 
helps  to  give  vent  to  my  strong  feeling  in  the  matter. 
When  I see  a woman  wearing  the  stuffed  carcasses  of 
birds  on  her  head,  or  the  plumage  of  birds  that  have 
been  killed  solely  to  supply  so-called  adornment,  I in- 
voluntarily liken  her  to  the  savage  who  bedecks  him- 
self in  like  manner.  It  is  the  same  vanity,  the  same 
unrefined,  primitive  notion  of  what  constitutes  adorn- 
ment, that  prompts  both  to  adopt  it. 

Recently  a woman  was  arguing  with  me  long  and 
ardently  against  vivisection,  and  all  the  while  she 
talked  I watched  the  poor  stuffed  remains  of  a bird 
bobbing  on  her  hat  as  she  nodded  her  head  to  punctu- 
ate her  remarks,  and  I could  not  help  asking  myself, 
“Is  it  a sincere  sympathy  for  what  she  terms  ‘the 


THE  MEXICAN  VENICE 


147 


poor,  defenceless,  tortured  creatures'  that  prompts 
this  woman  to  take  the  stand  she  does  against  vivi- 
section, or  is  it  simply  a fad  with  her,  which  she  has 
adopted  because  she  thinks  it  is  'the  thing’?"  The 
hat,  with  its  stuffed  bird,  was  a strong  argument  against 
her  sincerity,  and  not  consistent  with  her  remarks, 
and  I finally  decided  in  favor  of  the  fad,  though  I 
discreetly  kept  this  opinion  to  myself.  I am  a timid 
man.  The  wrath  of  a woman  is  usually  unreasoning, 
often  unjustified,  and  always  terrible  to  contemplate, 
especially  when  a man  controverts  her  arguments  with 
a patent  proof  of  her  insincerity. 

It  was  too  dark  to  see  the  town  that  night,  so  we 
sat  out  of  doors,  and  smoked  to  keep  away  the  swarms 
of  mosquitoes  that  infested  the  place,  while  we  listened 
to  the  music  and  chatted  with  our  jovial  host  and  his 
friend  the  Jefe.  Though  neither  of  them  could  speak 
English,  we  had  little  difficulty  in  carrying  on  a con- 
versation through  Kaiser. 

“Did  you  make  your  wills  before  you  came?"  asked 
Senor  Martin. 

“No,  why  should  we  make  our  wills  before  coming 
to  Mexcaltatan?  ” 

“In  the  high  country  they  consider  it  a dangerous 
undertaking  to  come  down  here  to  the  swamps,"  he 
explained.  “Once  in  a while  a merchant  from  Tepic 
or  Guadalajara  comes,  and  before  he  leaves  home  he 
always  makes  his  will  and  says  a last  farewell  to  his 
family." 

“Did  any  of  them  ever  die  here?"  we  asked,  with 
some  anxiety  lest  we  had  committed  a grave  over- 
sight in  neglecting  to  make  our  wills  and  to  bid  a fond 
farewell  to  Gates  and  Bigelow. 


148  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


“Oh,  no,  it ’s  just  an  old  fiction.  After  the  Con- 
quest the  Spaniards  ranging  the  western  coast  of 
Mexico  discovered  the  town,  and  some  of  them  tried 
to  live  here,  but  the  miasmal  swamps  made  them  all 
sick  with  the  fever,  and  they  had  to  move  away,  and 
the  place  has  ever  since  been  looked  upon  as  fatal  to 
the  white  man.  A bad  name  once  given  a locality  will 
cling  to  it,  deserved  or  not.  It  is  not  really  so  bad 
now.  The  natives  will  show  you  piles  of  oyster  shells 
that  they  say  their  forefathers  were  forced  to  open 
to  feed  the  Spaniards  in  those  days.  After  that  the 
Spaniards  came  only  now  and  then,  when  they  were 
on  the  coast  and  wanted  a load  of  dried  fish.  There 
was  nothing  to  keep  them,  for  there  was  no  gold  here 
— nothing  but  fish.” 

“What  is  the  population  of  Mexcaltatan? ” I asked. 

“Upwards  of  a thousand,”  answered  the  J£fe. 

“Have  you  ever  found  any  relics  that  would  point 
to  its  ancient  origin?” 

“Oh,  yes,”  said  Senor  Martin.  “Every  fourteen 
years  or  so  the  town  had  been  burned  down,  and  three 
years  ago,  when  we  had  the  last  fire,  it  was  decided  to 
build  a brick  house  for  the  J6fe’s  office  and  residence, 
and  the  jail,  and  when  excavations  were  made  for 
foundations  a number  of  idols  of  stone  and  clay,  arrow 
heads  and  stone  axes  and  old  pottery  were  dug  up.” 

“What  did  you  do  with  them?” 

“Gave  them  to  the  children  to  play  with.  They 
were  of  no  use.” 

The  following  day  I endeavored  to  find  some  of 
these  relics,  hoping  they  might  throw  light  upon  the 
people  who  founded  Mexcaltatan,  but  without  avail. 
They  had  all  been  lost. 


THE  MEXICAN  VENICE 


149 


At  ten  o’clock  the  band  ceased  playing,  and  we  were 
invited  to  our  room  in  Senor  Martin’s  house. 

“A  light  will  draw  the  mosquitoes,”  said  our  host, 
“so  we  shall  have  no  light,  but  pass  through  the  door 
quickly  and  retire  in  the  dark.” 

When  the  door  was  opened,  in  we  rushed  into 
unknown  blackness,  and,  for  aught  we  knew,  to  fall 
into  some  bottomless  pit.  But  we  found  solid  ground 
under  our  feet,  and  after  groping  around  for  some  time 
and  colliding  with  one  another,  each  finally  found 
himself  a canvas  cot,  and  went  to  his  rest. 

In  the  morning  an  old  senora  set  out  a wash  basin 
and  some  water  under  the  cocoanut  trees  of  the  patio, 
and  we  bathed  our  hands  and  faces,  drying  them  upon 
our  handkerchiefs,  for  we  had  forgotten  to  bring  towels 
with  us  and  our  host  had  none  to  offer. 

Then  Senor  Martin  cut  some  cocoanuts  from  the 
trees,  and  gave  us  the  milk  to  drink  and  afterwards 
we  went  out  for  a fish  breakfast  with  our  iron-gray 
senora.  Her  hut  was  the  hotel  of  the  town,  and  one 
of  her  guests  was  at  table  when  we  entered.  He 
proved  to  be  a school-teacher,  and,  like  the  other 
gentlemen  mentioned,  hailed  from  Tepic.  He  arose 
as  we  entered,  and  extending  his  hand  to  each,  greeted 
us  in  English  with, 

“Good-morn-ing.  I-am-your-friend,”  and  as  we 
sat  down  he  continued,  “ Tam- vera-much  hun-ger-ie. 
I-am-the-school-master . ’ ’ 

It  was  gratifying  to  find  some  one  who  could  speak 
English,  and  I was  exceedingly  pleased  to  meet  him. 
A school-master,  he  was  doubtless  a man  of  some  edu- 
cation, and  his  knowledge  of  English  would  enable  us 
to  converse  with  him  in  our  own  language,  and  thus 


150  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


learn  much  of  our  surroundings  that  we  should  other- 
wise miss. 

“How  large  a school  have  you,  senor?”  I asked,  by 
way  of  opening  the  conversation. 

“I-count-it-forty-one,”  he  answered  with  great  pre- 
cision. 

“A  very  good  school,”  I commented.  “Have  you 
been  teaching  here  long?” 

‘ ‘ I-count-it-forty-one.  ’ ’ 

I looked  at  him  with  astonishment.  He  was  not 
a day  over  twenty-eight. 

“Excuse  me,  how  long  did  you  say?” 

“I-count-it-forty-one.”  Then  in  a moment  he  con- 
tinued, “I-eata-the-meat.  I-have-a-sickness.” 

We  then  noticed  that  instead  of  fish,  he  had  a small 
piece  of  meat  before  him,  fried  and  burned  very  black. 

“Is  that  better  for  your  ailment  than  fish?”  I 
inquired,  beginning  to  wonder  whether  he  was  afflicted 
with  leprosy,  not  uncommon  in  some  localities  of 
Western  Mexico,  and  feeling  a decided  interest  in  the 
matter,  for  we  had  all  shaken  his  hand.  But  his  • 
reply  was  apparently  far  from  the  point. 

‘ ‘ I-have-a-sweet-heart-with-the-beau-ti-f  ul-eyes.  ’ ’ 

“Ah,”  I remarked,  “ that  must  be  very  pleasant.” 

“I-likes-it-here.” 

This  was  the  limit  of  the  school-master’s  English, 
except  “Good-bye.  I-am-your-friend,”  which  was  re- 
peated to  each  of  us  individually  as  we  departed. 

The  plaza  of  Mexcaltatan  is  a rectangle,  in  dimen- 
sion about  sixty  by  one  hundred  feet.  Upon  one 
side  of  it  is  the  Jefe’s  house  — which  is  also  the  Govern- 
ment office  — before  referred  to,  and  this  and  a small 
church  standing  opposite  are  the  only  substantial 


THE  MEXICAN  VENICE 


151 


buildings  in  the  town.  Debris,  accumulated  through 
centuries,  has  made  solid  ground  of  the  plaza,  and  has 
filled  the  ends  of  the  canals  adjoining  it,  to  a point 
above  the  high-water  mark  at  flood  tide  during  the 
dry  season.  But  from  July  to  September,  when  the 
rivers  pour  down  their  torrents  from  the  mountains 
of  the  interior  into  the  lagunas,  all  but  the  bandstand 
in  the  centre  of  the  plaza  is  submerged,  and  when  the 
band  discourses  music  from  its  elevated  position  on 
Thursday  and  Sunday  evenings  during  this  period, 
canoes  circle  around  and  in  and  out  amongst  the  cocoa- 
nut  trees  of  the  plaza,  for  then  there  is  not  a square 
foot  of  earth  above  the  flood  to  stand  upon. 

This  was  the  dry  season,  and  nearly  a third  of  the 
inner  end  of  the  canals  was  drained.  Below  that, 
canoes  propelled  by  men  or  women  with  long  poles 
moved  up  and  down  or  swung  around  the  town  in 
the  canals  that  circle  in  from  the  outer  lagunas.  Some 
of  the  canoes  were  laden  with  fish  or  shrimps,  — the 
morning  catch;  others  were  passing  out,  to  carry  the 
occupants  to  their  morning  tasks.  There  were  places 
in  the  canals  where  fish  were  so  numerous  that  they 
crowded  one  another.  Once  we  stopped  where  a man 
was  sorting  shrimps,  to  watch  a school  of  catfish  swarm- 
ing close  to  the  canoe  in  which  the  man  worked,  and 
devouring  the  rejected  shrimps  as  he  threw  them  into 
the  water. 

Narrow  paths  were  built  along  the  canals,  in  front 
of  the  houses,  and  narrow  foot  bridges,  raised  high, 
that  they  might  not  interfere  with  the  free  passage 
of  canoes,  permitted  one  to  cross  from  canal  to  canal 
at  the  points  of  intersection.  We  made  a circuit  of 
the  town  along  these  paths  and  over  these  foot  bridges, 


152  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


and  everywhere  were  announced  by  children,  who 
shouted  into  the  huts  as  we  approached,  “Here  they 
come!  Here  they  come!”  and  curious-minded  folk 
stood  in  the  doors  to  gaze  at  us  as  we  passed. 

After  our  inspection  we  returned  to  the  plaza.  Here 
Senor  Martin  and  the  Jefe  were  waiting  for  us  to 
accompany  them  upon  an  excursion  amongst  the 
lagunas.  We  were  soon  away,  the  five  of  us  and  two 
Indian  canoemen  in  a large  dugout,  shooting  here  and 
there  through  the  beautiful  embowered  waterways, 
now  into  narrow  places  where  the  mangroves  nearly 
closed  overhead,  now  into  crystal  lakes  — a veritable 
fairy  maze  — until  we  were  quite  confused  with  it  all. 

It  was  near  eleven  o’clock  when  we  returned,  and 
were  landed  at  a great  drying  wharf,  to  be  introduced 
to  a Chinese  merchant,  who  conducted  the  great 
industry  of  the  town  in  dried  fish  and  shrimps.  Ten 
years  before,  this  Chinaman  came  from  San  Francisco’s 
Chinatown  and  landed  at  Mexcaltatan  with  a total 
capital  of  fifty  pesos  and  an  accumulated  stock  of 
absorbed  Western  American  push.  Now  he  is  doing  a 
yearly  business  of  $150,000  in  dried  fish,  which  he 
exports  to  his  fellow  countrymen  in  San  Francisco, 
and  dried  shrimps  which  he  distributes  among  the 
interior  cities  of  Mexico.  He  owns  a large  fleet  of 
dugout  canoes,  manned  by  Indians,  some  engaged  in 
fishing,  others,  the  carreteros  (freighters),  in  carrying 
the  prepared  product  to  the  mainland  mule  trains,  or 
to  the  steamers  at  San  Bias  or  Mazatlan.  One  can 
pass  through  inland  lagunas  almost  the  entire  distance 
from  San  Bias,  at  the  south  of  Mexcaltatan,  to  Mazatlan 
to  the  north  of  it,  a distance  by  canoe  of  about  one 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  or  thereabouts,  and  this  route 


THE  MEXICAN  VENICE 


153 


has  offered  the  Chinaman  a cheap  method  of  transpor- 
tation for  his  products  intended  for  the  north-bound 
steamers.  To  be  exact,  his  business  the  year  before 
our  visit  amounted  to  $50,000  in  fish,  $100,000  in 
shrimps,  and  $3,000  in  salt  — Mexican  money.  In 
ten  years  he  has  accumulated  in  these  lines  of  industry 
a working  capital  of  $300,000.  He  deplored  the  fact 
that  he  could  not  get  a concession  to  carry  on  the  deep- 
water shark  fishing  of  the  coast,  for  shark  fins  sell 
readily  in  San  Francisco’s  Chinese  colony;  but  another 
Chinaman  has  that  concession. 

From  the  Chinaman’s  drying  yards,  we  visited  a 
school.  The  master  — not  our  friend  — seemed  much 
pleased  at  the  opportunity  to  have  his  schoolroom 
and  his  flock  photographed.  His  “flock”  at  the  time 
consisted  of  but  three  children  — all  boys.  However, 
he  politely  excused  himself  until  he  could  gather  in 
some  more  youngsters,  for  he  wished  to  make  a good 
showing.  We  waited  for  him,  and  in  a little  while  he 
returned  with  four  or  five  recruits,  whom  he  had 
gathered  from  adjoining  houses,  and  the  photograph 
was  duly  made.  The  schoolhouse  was  much  superior 
to  the  average  dwelling.  It  served  also  as  the  sleeping- 
room  of  the  master,  as  a canvas  cot  in  the  rear, 
enclosed  within  a mosquito  bar,  gave  evidence. 

Opening  upon  the  patio  behind  the  Jefe’s  quarters 
was  a jail  in  which  three  Indian  prisoners  were  con- 
fined — two  men  and  a woman.  Some  weeks  previ- 
ously the  prisoners,  with  another  woman,  left  San 
Bias  one  day  in  a dugout  canoe,  en  route  to  Mazatlan. 
They  were  overtaken  by  a storm,  the  canoe  capsized, 
and  one  of  the  women  perished.  The  three  prisoners 
reached  an  island  in  safety,  but  every  rag  of  clothing 


154  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


had  been  torn  from  their  backs  by  the  buffeting  of 
the  sea,  and  all  their  food  and  everything  they  owned 
in  the  world  was  lost  beneath  the  waves.  The  sea 
drove  the  body  of  the  drowned  woman  upon  the 
shore,  and  the  survivors,  with  sticks  and  hands,  dug 
a grave  in  the  sand  and  buried  it  to  protect  it  from 
the  thousands  of  vultures  hovering  above  in  anticipa- 
tion of  a ghoulish  feast. 

I shall  not  attempt  to  tell  the  story  of  how  the  three, 
with  nothing  but  bare  hands,  found  means  to  eke  out 
an  existence  upon  fish  which  were  caught  by  the 
most  primitive  methods,  and  upon  roots  which  they 
dug,  until  finally  they  were  discovered  and  rescued 
by  a passing  canoe,  and  brought  to  Mexcaltatan. 
Here  their  nakedness  was  covered,  and  then  they  were 
thrown  into  prison  for  committing  the  heinous  offence 
of  burying  a human  body  before  the  proper  author- 
ities had  viewed  it,  for  under  the  laws  of  Mexico  this  is 
a grave  crime.  The  law  does  not  take  into  considera- 
tion the  fact  that  the  flesh  of  bodies  left  unburied  will 
be  devoured  by  the  ever-waiting  vultures  in  a few 
brief  hours,  for  vultures  leave  nothing  but  bones 
behind  them.  Six  months  in  prison  was  the  sentence. 
The  unfortunate  ones  each  had  a small  cell,  with 
earthen  floor,  but  no  blanket,  bedding,  or  furniture. 
The  cells  had  no  windows,  but  an  iron-barred  door 
admitted  light  and  air.  A chain,  passed  around  one 
of  the  bars  and  around  a log  laid  across  the  doorway 
outside,  the  links  of  the  chain  fastened  with  an  anti- 
quated padlock,  held  the  occupants  insecurely.  I 
could  not  help  remarking  that  if  the  prisoners  had 
been  very  ambitious  to  escape  they  could  have  done 
so  with  slight  effort.  The  chief  of  police  — and  he 


THE  MEXICAN  VENICE 


155 


constituted  the  entire  police  force  of  the  town  — 
graciously  permitted  the  gift  of  a few  coins  to  the 
prisoners. 

Referring  again  to  the  vultures,  I may  say  that  they 
were  particularly  numerous  and  tame  at  Mexcaltatan. 
They  sat  upon  the  roofs,  were  at  home  in  the  plaza, 
and  everywhere  watched  for  fish  scraps  like  a lot  of 
hungry  chickens.  Upon  ascending  the  narrow  steps 
in  the  bandstand  I had  to  push  one  of  them  out  of 
my  way.  Without  these  scavengers  Mexcaltatan 
would  not  be  habitable,  for  fish  refuse  would  make  a 
pest  hole  of  it. 

There  were  two  or  three  cows  wading  in  the  shallow 
water,  and  swimming  across  the  deeper  channels  to 
browse  upon  the  verdure  of  an  adjacent  island.  Senor 
Martin  told  us  they  ate  fish,  and  moreover,  he  assured 
us,  they  were  adept  at  catching  them.  Perhaps  they 
did,  but  it  stretched  one’s  credulity  to  believe  it,  and 
I did  not  see  them  do  it.  There  were,  however,  hogs 
wallowing  in  the  mud,  and  chickens  everywhere, 
which  lived  almost  wholly  upon  fish. 

Our  horses  were  to  be  in  waiting  on  the  mainland 
at  three  o’clock,  and  after  a dinner  consisting  of  the 
famous  Aztec  dish  tatishuile,  composed  wholly  of 
shrimps,  and  an  especially  toothsome  fish  known 
locally  as  Majarras,  we  bade  good-bye  to  Senor  Martin 
and  the  Jefe. 

And  so  we  left  behind  us  this  wonderful  bit  of  old 
Mexico,  this  town  of  the  Aztecs  with  its  quaint  people 
and  quaint  life,  its  ancient  canals  and  embowered 
lagunas,  its  flowers  and  its  birds,  well  satisfied  with 
our  visit,  and  withal  quite  ready  to  move  on  to  other 
scenes. 


156  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


Miguel  was  waiting  for  us  with  our  mounts  when 
we  reached  the  mainland  at  half-past  three,  and  an 
hour  after  dark,  when  everything  under  foot  was 
dripping  wet  with  heavy  evening  dew,  and  overhead 
the  cloudless  azure  was  aglitter  with  stars,  we  rode 
into  the  patio  of  the  Hotel  Sur  Pacifico  in  Santiago 
Ixcuintla.  Frederico  Kaiser  had  severed  his  connec- 
tion with  the  San  Nicolas  Hacienda,  and  the  following 
morning  when  Emerson,  Randall,  and  I took  the  river 
trail  for  the  ranch,  we  bade  him  a final  good-bye. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


THE  PARTING  IN  MAZATLAN  HARBOR 

DURING  our  stay  in  Tepic  Territory,  nearly 
every  day  was  spent  in  the  saddle  exploring 
the  surrounding  country,  getting  a close  view 
of  the  people  and  the  life,  or  hunting.  Game  was 
plentiful,  and  the  birds  and  venison  on  our  table  were 
secured  without  much  effort,  — but  no  one  ever  killed 
beyond  the  requirements  of  the  larder.  Several  vari- 
eties of  quail  abound  here,  but  the  California  quail  is, 
perhaps,  the  most  numerous.  Pheasants  are  in  the 
hills,  and  you  have  only  to  wait  by  a brook  to  get 
your  deer.  We  all  had  a crack  at  the  alligators,  of 
course,  which  could  be  seen  at  any  time  sunning 
themselves  on  the  sands  at  the  river  bank;  and  it  was 
no  great  feat  to  shoot  them. 

One  day  a telegram  came  from  Ramos  announcing 
a north-bound  Pacific  Mail  steamer  due  to  arrive  at 
San  Bias  on  November  seventeenth.  Emerson  was 
to  go  home  on  this  steamer,  and  to  my  great  regret 
Randall  also  found  it  necessary,  for  business  reasons, 
to  return.  The  steamer  was  to  touch  at  Mazatlan, 
and  that  I might  enjoy  the  society  of  my  friends  as 
long  as  possible,  I decided  to  accompany  them  as  far 
as  that  port,  rather  than  go  by  the  stage,  which  had 
no  attraction  for  me.  From  Mazatlan  I could  pro- 
ceed by  stage,  or  any  more  agreeable  means  that  might 
offer,  to  Culiacan,  the  capital  city  of  the  State  of 

157 


158  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


Sinaloa,  there  to  outfit  for  my  further  inland  travels. 
It  had  been  the  intention  of  Randall  and  myself  to 
purchase  mules  in  Santiago  Ixcuintla,  and  to  journey 
northward  to  Mazatlan  and  Culiacan  over  the  trails, 
but  good  mules  at  that  season  were  difficult  to  get, 
and  at  a premium,  and  we  had  been  forced  to  relin- 
quish our  plan. 

So  on  the  fourteenth  of  November  we  said  farewell 
to  Bigelow  and  rode  away.  Gates  and  Serapio  accom- 
panied us  as  far  as  the  Caimonaro,  'and  I rode  behind 
with  Serapio,  to  chat  with  him  about  the  country, 
while  the  others  trotted  ahead. 

“I  no  likes  you  go,”  said  Serapio  as  we  jogged 
along.  “You  come-a  once  again?” 

“I  don’t  know,  Serapio,”  I answered.  “I  should 
like  to  come  sometime,  but  it  is  uncertain.” 

“Yes,  come-a  the  June  month.  Write-a  the  letter 
before.  I senda  th’  mozo  Santiago  with  th’  horse. 
I take-a  you  tiger  hunt.  I take-a  you  th’  alligator 
hunt.  I take-a  you  see  strange  Indian.  Three  kinda 
th’  Indian,  three  kinda  talk,  three  kinda  clothes.  Indian 
live  close  each  other  but  no  like-a  the  other.” 

At  this  moment  our  pack  mule,  which  had  lagged 
behind  the  others  and  was  directly  in  front  of  us, 
decided  that  it  was  a propitious  time  to  run  away,  and 
off  it  started  through  a corn-field  that  we  were  passing, 
scattering  our  baggage  as  it  fled.  Serapio  was  after 
it  in  an  instant,  at  full  gallop,  swinging  his  lariat  above 
his  head.  The  rawhide  settled  around  the  mule’s 
neck,  and  the  refractory  animal  was  ignominiously 
led  back  to  recover  its  load.  Then,  as  though  nothing 
had  happened  to  interrupt  our  conversation,  Serapio 
continued, 


PARTING  IN  MAZATLAN  HARBOR  159 


“I  take-a  you  see  all.  Write-a  th’  letter  for  th’ 
June  month.” 

“ Thank  you,  Serapio,”  I said,  grateful  for  the 
invitation.  “I’ll  try  hard  to  come,  but  I can’t  say 
yet.  I’ll  let  you  know.” 

“I  like-a  th’  Americano.  I much  Americano,  too. 
I been-a  th’  cowboy  in  Texas.  Maybe  senda  my  son 
Miguel.  Make-a  th’  man  of  Miguel.  Make-a  th’  man 
of  Mexicano.  Americano  in-a  th’  business,  quick. 
Mexicano,  no.  Ask-a  Americano  business,  he  say 
'yes,’  'no,’  quick.  Ask-a  Mexicano,  he  say  ‘manana.’ 
'You  come-a  to-morrow’;  again  he  say  ‘manana,’ 
always  ‘manana.’  Keep  you  one  week,  maybe  two, 
always  ‘manana,’  then  tella  you  'no  good.’  Damn! 
Damn-a  bad  lot!  Sell-a  th’  goods  same-a  th’  Jew. 
Has-a  th’  many  price.  One-a  price  to  you,  different 
price  to  other.  Mexicano  pay  one  price,  Americano 
pay  two-a,  three-a  times  more.  Damn!” 

In  Mexico,  as  Serapio  said,  everything  is  to  be  done 
manana,  and  if  you  ask  a Mexican  a question  that  calls 
for  any  other  answer  than  “yes”  or  “no,”  his  reply  is 
sure  to  be  “Quien  sabef”  (Who  knows?) 

This  suggests  a story  I heard  in  Mexico.  An  Ameri- 
can was  standing  on  a street  corner  one  day  watching 
a funeral  procession  file  past.  It  was  an  elaborate 
funeral  with  many  mourners,  and  suggested  that  the 
deceased  had  been  some  one  of  distinction.  To  satisfy 
his  curiosity  the  American  asked  a Mexican  at  his 
side, 

“Who  was  the  deceased,  my  friend?” 

“Quien  sabe?”  came  the  inevitable  answer,  with  the 
annoying  shrug  of  the  shoulders  that  always  accom- 
panies it. 


160  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


“Well,”  said  the  American,  his  face  lighting  up, 
“I’m  glad  ‘Quien  Sabe’  is  dead.  I suppose  I’m  hard- 
hearted, but  I’m  glad.  Now,  if  ‘Manana’  would  only- 
die,  there’d  be  some  hope  for  your  country.” 

At  the  Caimonaro,  Gates  and  Serapio  left  us,  and 
after  dark  that  night  we  rode  into  Navarrete.  I had 
not  forgotten  the  promise  made  to  the  round-faced 
senorita,  when  I took  the  snapshot  of  her  on  our 
previous  visit,  and  before  we  sat  down  to  supper  I 
gave  her  a copy  of  the  photograph.  She  accepted 
it  eagerly,  and  for  a full  half-hour,  while  we  were 
eating,  admired  it,  now  and  then  uttering  a delighted 
exclamation.  After  supper,  I took  a seat  on  a bench, 
and  she  came  over  and  sat  by  me,  still  holding  the 
photograph.  She  looked  at  me  intently  for  a moment 
and  then  placing  her  hand  upon  my  shoulder  exclaimed, 
“Don  Pancho!  0,  Don  Pancho!”  She  had  decided 
that  I was  a magician  or  possessed  some  superhuman 
power,  that  I could  produce  her  likeness  upon  paper 
in  that  manner.  She  asked  where  I was  going,  and 
I told  her,  through  Randall,  who  had  mastered  some 
of  the  dialect,  to  Culiacan,  and  then  far,  far  away. 
She  wanted  to  go  with  me.  A man  who  could  do 
what  I had  done  could  do  anything.  She  would  stay 
with  me  always.  The  situation  was  becoming  interest- 
ing for  me,  and  very  amusing  to  the  others.  I had 
not  foreseen  any  such  result  as  this  when  I made  that 
miserable  print.  I told  her  it  was  a cold,  cold  country 
I lived  in,  and  she  would  not  like  it,  — I could  not 
take  her  with  me. 

Presently  our  mozo  came  in  and  asked,  “A  qui 
saiga?”  (At  what  time  do  you  go?) 

“What  bobtailed  Spanish!”  exclaimed  Randall, 


PARTING  IN  MAZATLAN  HARBOR  161 


after  he  had  instructed  the  mozo  to  be  ready  at  six  on 
the  morning. 

It  was  near  noon  the  following  day  when  we  had 
our  first  glimpse  of  San  Bias  Hill,  and  for  my  two 
friends,  now  homeward  bound,  it  was  good  to  see. 
Ramos  met  us  at  the  Hotel  Americano,  with  the  dis- 
turbing report  that  the  bubonic  plague  had  broken 
out  in  Mazatlan,  but  cheered  us  with  the  information 
that  the  previous  report  of  cholera  was  unfounded. 
I immediately  wired  the  American  consul  in  that 
town,  Mr.  Louis  Kaiser,  requesting  the  facts,  and  the 
next  day  received  the  following  reply: 

“No  bubonic  or  other  plagues  here  except  scarcity  of 
money.” 

I was  already  inoculated  with  the  germs  of  that 
plague,  so  the  telegram  brought  me  great  relief. 

San  Bias,  which  had  seemed  to  us  so  strange  and 
wonderful,  so  Oriental  and  unique,  but  a few  weeks 
before,  was  now  exceedingly  commonplace.  Close 
contact  with  the  country  had  robbed  it  of  its  first 
charm,  and  eager  as  we  had  been  then  to  dip  into  the 
novel  life,  wTe  were  now  still  more  eager  to  be  away. 
Possibly  the  hehens,  or  sand  flies,  had  something  to 
do  with  our  wish.  They  were  exceedingly  numerous 
and  active,  and  attacked  us  most  effectively. 

The  steamer  was  a day  behind  the  expected  time 
and  Ramos  took  us  fishing  out  to  “Old  Blanco,”  a 
bird  rock  lying  off  the  shallow  harbor.  I had  just 
hauled  in  a fish  that  resembled  some  descriptions 
of  Mephistopheles,  and  Emerson  in  an  inexplicable 
manner  had  taken  a half-hitch  around  a snake,  which 
he  also  brought  aboard  our  boat,  when  he  and  Randall 
developed  seasickness  and  nausea,  and  we  had  to  quit. 


162  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


But  we  bought  some  oysters  — not  comparable  in 
quality  with  our  Atlantic  oysters  — which  we  took 
to  the  hotel,  and  Ramos  secured  some  milk  and  made 
a good  old-fashioned  stew,  the  first  thing  that  tasted 
like  American  food  since  our  landing  in  Mexico.  It 
was  a source  of  amusement  to  the  old  women  who  ran 
our  hotel,  and  they  laughed  at  Ramos  while  he  cooked 
it  over  the  kitchen  fire,  which  piqued  him  to  such  an 
extent  that  he  refused  to  let  them  taste  it. 

Our  party  was  enlarged  here  by  a young  mining 
chemist  — a typical  American  optimist  — who  came 
in  during  the  night.  The  mine  he  was  employed  in 
was  controlled  by  an  American  bank  which  had  gone 
down  in  the  financial  crash.  He  and  two  friends 
were  left  stranded.  They  pawned  their  instruments 
in  Tepic  City,  and  he  was  on  his  way  home  to  raise 
money  to  pay  the  passage  of  his  friends  to  San  Fran- 
cisco. He  had  just  funds  enough  in  his  pocket  to 
buy  a steerage  ticket.  It  was  his  second  or  third 
experience  of  this  kind  in  Mexico,  but  he  was  very 
philosophical  and  treated  it  as  a huge  joke. 

On  November  eighteenth  the  City  of  Para  anchored 
off  San  Bias,  and  we  lost  no  time  in  going  aboard. 
Ramos  put  two  lighter  loads  of  bananas  into  her  hold, 
then  said  farewell,  and,  just  as  the  sun  was  dropping 
into  the  Pacific,  we  steamed  away.  Randall  stood 
at  the  rail  as  San  Bias  faded  from  view,  and  I heard 
him  say: 

“Good-bye,  thou  land  of  sunshine  and  perspiration, 
fleas  and  hehens,  garapotas  and  alacranes,  manana  and 
quien  sabe.  I’m  going  home  to  God’s  country.  I’m 
a good  citizen  of  the  United  States,  and  I never  was 
so  proud  of  it  as  now.”  Turning  to  the  Stars  and 


PARTING  IN  MAZATLAN  HARBOR  163 


Stripes  floating  aft,  he  took  off  his  hat.  “Flag,  I 
salute  thee!  That  old  flag  does  look  mighty  good, 
doesn’t  it?”  And  then  we  went  into  the  dining 
saloon  to  enjoy  the  first  good  American  dinner,  and 
the  first  food  not  seasoned  with  chilli  peppers,  we 
had  eaten  for  weeks,  and  not  an  item  on  the  menu 
escaped  us. 

The  City  of  Para  dropped  anchor  in  the  offing  at 
Mazatlan  on  the  morning  of  November  nineteenth. 
Half  a mile  away,  under  Cerro  del  Creston,  lay  another 
American  steamer  with  the  yellow  flag  of  quarantine 
flying  from  her  foremast,  an  indication  that  she  had 
recently  arrived,  and,  probably,  from  San  Francisco, 
as  that  was  practically  the  only  port  against  which 
quarantine  regulations  were  strictly  enforced  by  the 
Mazatlan  authorities.  Upon  inquiry  it  was  learned 
that  this  steamer  was  the  Curacao  of  the  Pacific  Coast 
Line,  and  was  doubtless  northward  bound  to  Gulf  of 
California  ports.  If  this  were  the  case  it  would  suit 
me  exactly.  I could  take  passage  on  her  to  Altata, 
the  seaport  of  Culiacan,  and  go  thence  by  rail  to 
Culiacan,  as  the  capital  city,  forty-five  miles  inland, 
is  connected  with  Altata  by  a railway.  Thus  I could 
avoid  an  excruciating  stage  journey  from  Mazatlan, 
and  economize  time. 

The  same  doctor  who  had  rejected  us  before  now 
pronounced  us  worthy  of  admission  to  Mazatlan 
society,  for  our  brief  residence  in  Mexico  had  purged 
us  of  such  germs  as  we  might  have  brought  down  with 
us  from  our  own  pest-ridden  country;  and  with  this 
permission  to  land,  we  engaged  one  of  the  numerous 
boatmen,  who  were  clamoring  for  passengers  at  the 
ship’s  side,  to  take  us  ashore. 


164  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


Once  on  land  we  hurried  to  the  office  of  the  Pacific 
Coast  Line,  where  I found  my  surmise  as  to  the  Cura- 
cao’s course  to  be  correct,  and  that  she  would  sail  that 
very  evening  for  Altata.  My  passage  ticket  was 
quickly  purchased,  some  other  business  transacted, 
and  then  we  called  upon  Mr.  Louis  Kaiser,  the  Ameri- 
can consul,  to  pay  our  respects. 

We  found  Mr.  Kaiser*  to  be  a jolly,  cordial  little 
man,  in  dimensions  about  five  feet  tall  and  four 
feet  broad.  He  had  occupied  this  post  for  several 
years,  and  was  one  of  the  most  efficient,  active, 
and  popular  of  our  consular  agents  in  Mexico.  He 
evinced  interest  in  my  trip,  and  offered  me  every 
possible  assistance  in  collecting  data,  an  offer  which 
I was  profoundly  grateful  for,  and  of  which  I took 
advantage  later. 

We  ate  dinner  at  the  Hotel  Central,  Emerson, 
Randall,  and  I,  and  a very  good  dinner  it  was.  We 
made  much  of  it,  too,  for  this  was  to  be  our  farewell 
meal  together,  and  we  realized  how  unlikely  it  was 
that  the  three  of  us  would  ever  sit  at  the  same  table 
together  again.  We  talked  over  the  experiences  of 
past  weeks  with  their  delightful  companionship,  and 
made  plans  and  promises  for  future  correspondence, 
until  the  hour  appointed  to  meet  our  boatmen.  Then 
we  reluctantly  returned  to  the  wharf,  loaded  my 
baggage,  which  had  been  left  at  the  custom  house, 
into  the  boat,  and  rowed  to  the  Curacao’s  side.  My 
friends  were  not  permitted  to  come  aboard,  because 
of  the  yellow  flag  at  the  masthead;  so  we  said  farewell 
at  the  ladder,  and  they  proceeded  to  their  ship. 

The  Pacific  was  aglow  with  the  afterlight  of  a mag- 

* Mr.  Kaiser  has  since  resigned. 


PARTING  IN  MAZATLAN  HARBOR  165 


nificent  sunset  as  we  steamed  past  the  City  of  Para. 
I sat  upon  the  deck  until  she  was  swallowed  up  by  the 
night,  and  until  the  dark  silhouette  of  Cerro  del  Creston, 
surmounted  by  its  lofty  blinking  light,  was  lost  in  the 
distance. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

NORTH  OF  THE  TROPICS 

THE  Curacao  steamed  into  Altata  harbor  at 
nine  o’clock  on  the  morning  of  November 
twentieth.  In  the  night  we  had  crossed  the 
Tropic  of  Cancer,  and  passed  out  of  the  torrid  into 
the  temperate  zone.  In  even  this  short  journey  to 
the  northward  there  was  a marked  difference  in  the 
temperature,  and  in  a few  hours  the  burning  heat  of 
the  south  had  been  supplanted  by  a balmier  and  less 
stifling  atmosphere. 

The  white  huts  of  Altata,  with  their  thatched  roofs 
of  sea  grass  clustering  on  the  sandy  beach  or  rising 
on  the  face  of  a low  sand  hill,  with  little  vegetation 
to  be  seen,  save  here  and  there  a stately  cocoa- 
nut  palm,  presented  a picturesque,  though  squalid, 
appearance.  The  lack  of  green  shrubbery  and  grass 
could  not  fail  to  strike  one  forcibly,  and  nowhere  was 
there  a church  spire  or  a substantial  structure  to  give 
dignity  to  the  place.  The  unsubstantial  character  of 
the  buildings,  I learned,  was  due  to  the  fact  that  some 
ten  or  twelve  years  before  a tidal  wave  had  submerged 
and  destroyed  the  greater  part  of  the  town.  The 
business  portion  of  Altata  previous  to  that  time  had 
contained  several  buildings  of  brick  and  stone,  but 
they  had  crumbled  away  before  the  flood,  and  now 
vessels  anchor  where  they  once  stood.  When  Altata 
was  rebuilt  only  these  flimsy  huts  were  erected  to 

166 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPICS 


167 


take  the  place  of  those  destroyed,  "for/’  argued  the 
philosophical  natives,  “some  time  or  other  a tidal 
wave  may  come  again,  and  so  what  is  the  use  of  build- 
ing good  houses?” 

The  sand  slopes  out  so  gently  toward  the  deep 
water  of  the  harbor  roadway  that  the  boat  in  which  I 
left  the  ship,  in  company  with  several  other  passengers, 
was  brought  to  a stop  by  the  shallow  water  some  ten 
or  fifteen  yards  from  shore;  and  here  our  two  bare- 
legged boatmen  sprang  into  the  surf,  and  carried  us 
to  dry  land  upon  their  backs. 

Though  I had  just  come  from  a Mexican  port,  a 
fact  of  which  the  officers  were  well  assured  by  ample 
proof,  I was  called  upon  to  unpack  my  bags  and  dis- 
play to  the  gaze  of  the  inspector  and  the  assembled 
populace  every  last  article  I had  with  me.  One  of 
the  onlookers  was  a fat  Mexican  of  Spanish  extrac- 
tion, who  could  speak  very  good  English.  He  politely 
offered  to  interpret  for  me,  and  through  him  I explained 
to  the  customs  officers  who  and  what  I was,  where  I 
bought  this  and  that,  how  much  I paid  for  it,  the  color, 
sex,  age,  and  nationality  of  the  salesman  or  saleswoman 
from  whom  I purchased  it,  where  I had  been  and  what 
I had  done  during  the  past  decade,  my  prospects  in 
life,  my  antecedents,  in  short,  my  pedigree  generally. 
I laid  bare  to  them  my  innermost  soul.  A friend  told 
me  later  that  I was  subjected  to  this  third  degree 
ordeal  because  I looked  like  an  escaped  bank  embezzler 
from  the  United  States,  and  just  then,  in  the  midst 
of  the  financial  difficulty  in  the  States,  there  were  a 
good  many  of  these  gentlemen  floating  down  into 
Mexico. 

In  this  connection  I may  say  that  it  is  not  good 


168  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


form  to  ask  an  American  in  Mexico  his  name,  and  it  is 
positively  rude  to  ask  him  what  part  of  the  United 
States  he  came  from,  for  in  doing  so  one  is  likely  to 
tread  upon  delicate  ground.  I know  one  American 
down  there  who,  when  introduced  to  a fellow  country- 
man, always  asks:  “What  was  your  name  before  you 
came  to  Mexico?”  This  man  is  not  in  favor,  and  he 
is  ostracized  by  the  wealthier  members  of  the  Ameri- 
can colony  — those  whose  feelings  are  injured  by  the 
insinuation. 

During  the  inquisition  that  the  customs  official 
put  me  through  I kept  my  temper.  As  a reward  no 
backsheesh  in  the  form  of  duty  was  levied  upon  me. 
I learned  later  that  the  fat  Mexican  was  the  leader 
of  a sort  of  Tammany  Hall  political  organization  and, 
therefore,  in  him  was  combined  the  mayor,  the  officials 
that  take  the  place  of  aldermen,  and  so  on  — a sort 
of  Pooh-Bah  concentrated  essence  of  government, 
although  not  nominally  an  office-holder  at  all;  in 
short,  just  like  the  leader  of  Tammany  Hall  in  New 
York  City.  Perhaps  that  was  why  he  was  so  portly 
and  prosperous. 

Altata,  as  was  stated  in  a previous  chapter,  is  the 
seaport  of  Culiacan,  the  capital  of  the  State  of  Sinaloa. 
These  towns,  situated  forty-five  miles  distant  from 
each  other,  are  the  terminals  of  the  railroad  that 
connects  them.  Since  it  was  put  in  operation  in  the 
early  seventies  practically  no  improvement  or  addi- 
tion has  been  made  to  the  road  or  its  rolling  stock, 
and  the  same  wood-burning  locomotives,  with  the 
same  wide-mouthed  smoke-stacks,  are  still  in  service. 
There  are  only  two  locomotives  on  the  line  and  they 
have  undergone  no  change  since  they  came  from  the 


Going  ashore  at  Altata 


A scene  in  Altata 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPICS 


169 


shops  of  the  Baldwin  Locomotive  Works  in  Paterson, 
New  Jersey,  nearly  forty  years  ago.  There  are  first- 
and  second-class  passenger  cars  on  this  road  — no 
stretch  of  the  imagination  could  dignify  them  as 
coaches  — and  tri-weekly  trains  are  operated.  The 
first-class  cars  are  nothing  more  or  less  than  old- 
fashioned  box  cars  with  doors  and  platforms  built  in 
the  ends,  windows  in  the  sides,  and  with  rough  slat 
seats.  The  second-class  cars  are  flat  cars  with  similar 
seats  and  a roof,  but  no  sides.  Formerly  they  had 
third-class  cars.  What  these  could  have  been  like  it 
is  hard  to  imagine,  unless  they  were  plain  flat  cars 
with  no  seats  or  roof. 

Fortunately  I had  arrived  on  a day  when  a train  was 
scheduled  to  leave  Altata.  I say  “scheduled  to  leave,” 
for  one  can  never  tell  whether  it  will  actually  leave  or 
not,  and  if  it  does,  how  far  it  will  go,  — it  is  so  prone 
to  get  off  the  rails.  It  was  near  twelve  o’clock  when 
they  finished  with  me  at  the  custom  house,  and  then 
I had  a mozo  transfer  my  baggage  to  the  station  at 
once,  where  I learned  that  the  train  would  depart 
for  Culiacan  at  two. 

At  the  station  I met  a young  American,  one  of  the 
Curacao's  passengers,  who  had  come  ashore  to  stretch 
his  legs  and  look  around.  I had  nearly  two  hours  at 
my  disposal,  and  we  decided  to  utilize  the  time  in  a 
joint  survey  of  Altata,  and  in  quest  of  dinner. 

Our  curiosity  as  to  the  town  was  soon  satisfied,  for 
we  found  it  to  be  a most  miserable  and  unattractive 
place.  In  the  streets  one  sinks  ankle-deep  in  sand, 
the  plaza  is  a square  of  sand  void  of  all  verdure,  and 
the  interiors  of  the  houses  are  squalid  and  dirty.  We 
were  directed  for  dinner  to  one  of  the  larger  hovels 


170  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


down  by  the  beach,  which  we  were  informed  was  the 
principal  hotel.  When  I saw  the  place  I was  most 
thankful  that  it  was  not  my  lot  to  pass  a night  in  it. 
Several  weeks  later  I had  occasion  to  recall  this,  when 
my  fortune  changed. 

Shortly  after  two  o’clock  the  train  pulled  out,  to 
bump  leisurely  along  the  streaks  of  rust  that  took  the 
place  of  rails,  and  presently  the  conductor,  an  Ameri- 
can, a unique  individual  named  Charley,  appeared 
to  collect  the  tickets.  The  most  noticeable  charac- 
teristics of  Charley  were  a broad-brimmed  sombrero, 
attached  to  his  coat  by  a string,  and  an  impassive 
face,  punctuated  by  a sharp  nose  surmounted  by  two 
small  eyes.  He  was  accompanied  by  a Mexican,  who 
received  money,  and  supplied  tickets  to  those  who  had 
not  purchased  them  at  the  station.  Charley  had  this 
Mexican  ticket  seller  with  him  as  a precautionary 
measure,  and  as  a matter  of  self-protection.  In  the 
early  days  of  the  railroad  he  did  the  work  alone,  but 
one  day  a passenger  who  had  no  ticket  declined  to 
pay  his  fare,’  for  the  very  good  reason  that  he  had  no 
fare  to  pay.  Charley  pitched  the  man  off  the  train 
without  going  to  the  formality  of  stopping  it,  and  the 
passenger  was  so  careless  and  inconsiderate  as  to  get 
killed,  which  was  quite  uncalled  for  so  far  as  the 
speed  of  the  train  was  concerned.  It  annoyed  Charley 
a good  deal,  for  he  had  to  stop  the  train  to  pick  up 
the  remains  and  take  them  to  the  next  house.  It 
annoyed  him  still  more  when  the  authorities  put  him 
into  jail  for  a few  days  while  the  occurrence  was 
investigated.  Of  course,  Charley  was  set  free,  for 
he  had  done  nothing  but  pitch  the  fellow  off  the  mov- 
ing train,  and  it  was  not  his  fault  if  the  man  did  not 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPICS 


171 


alight  properly  and  was  killed.  After  this  occurrence 
the  native  ticket  seller  was  installed  as  a sort  of  official 
bouncer.  Charley,  I might  say,  is  many  other  things 
on  this  railroad  beside  conductor.  He  is  general 
traffic  manager,  roadmaster,  trainmaster,  superin- 
tendent of  motive  power,  and  holds  other  offices  too 
numerous  to  mention  — a sort  of  railroad  official 
trust. 

The  railroad  bridge  across  the  Culiacan  River,  a 
stream  of  considerable  breadth,  washes  away  each 
year  in  the  annual  flood,  and  this  year  it  had  not  yet 
been  replaced.  The  passengers  were  all  ferried  across 
in  canoes,  and  on  the  opposite  side  we  found  the  other 
engine  and  other  cars  waiting  us,  and  after  a half- 
hour’s  delay,  to  permit  of  the  transfer  of  freight,  were 
on  our  way  again. 

There  were  two  Americans  on  the  train  en  route  to 
Culiacan.  We  three  spent  the  time  very  pleasantly 
chatting  about  the  country  and  its  possibilities,  and 
noting  the  condition  of  the  crops.  For  a few  miles 
from  the  coast  the  soil  is  sandy  and  barren,  and 
then  the  train  passes  into  a fertile  district.  This 
section  has  a striking  likeness  to  Southern  California. 
The  soil  and  topography  of  the  country  resemble  it 
very  closely,  though  the  vegetation  is  naturally  more 
tropical. 

There  is  marked  contrast  between  the  natives  here 
and  those  of  Tepic  Territory.  These  have  a less 
swarthy  skin,  and  their  features  and  movements 
stamp  them  as  of  different  blood.  This  is  doubtless 
to  some  extent  due  to  the  fact  that  here  there  is  a 
greater  mixture  of  blood  and  races,  brought  about  by 
the  readier  means  of  communication  with  those  farther 


172  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


north,  supplied  by  frequent  steamers  and  numerous 
sailing  craft  on  the  coast,  and  extended  inland  from 
Altata  by  the  railroad  to  Culiacan.  The  men  do  not 
wear  pajamas,  but  otherwise  the  dress  is  similar  to 
that  seen  in  Tepic. 

Our  train  halted  for  some  time  opposite  the  refining 
works  of  the  Sinaloa  Sugar  Company,  owned  by  an 
American  firm.  It  is  one  of  the  most  extensive  sugar 
plants  in  Mexico,  and  one  of  very  few  where  modern, 
up-to-date  machinery  has  been  installed.  The  annual 
production  of  the  factory  is  over  two  thousand  tons. 
As  a general  rule,  the  sugar  mills  of  Mexico  are  fitted 
with  antiquated  machinery,  and  antediluvian  methods 
of  manufacture  are  in  vogue.  On  either  side  of  the 
railroad,  for  a considerable  distance  around  the  sugar 
works,  lay  magnificent  fields  of  cane,  which  here  is 
unusually  rich  in  quality  and  large  in  size. 

Darkness  finally  came  to  shut  out  our  view  of  the 
country.  A native  brakeman  hung  a smoky  lantern 
in  the  car,  which  cast  gloom  rather  than  light,  and  I 
was  glad  when  the  glare  of  the  electric  lights  of  Culia- 
can at  length  sprang  into  view  on  our  left,  as  the 
train  lumbered  around  a curve. 

It  was  seven  o’clock  when  we  came  to  a halt  at  the 
station.  Instantly  a dozen  men  and  boys  rushed  into 
the  car,  in  mad  competition  to  secure  possession  of 
the  passengers’  hand  baggage,  with  the  avowed  inten- 
tion of  carrying  it,  for  a consideration,  to  waiting 
carriages  outside.  I had  been  warned  that  sometimes 
these  fellows  after  securing  baggage  mysteriously 
disappeared  with  it  in  the  crowd  and  darkness,  to  be 
seen  no  more,  and  I resolved  to  hold  on  to  mine. 
After  two  or  three  strenuous  wrestling  matches  with 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPICS 


173 


insistent  ones,  I at  length  found  myself  on  the  plat- 
form, still  in  control  of  my  suit  case,  only  to  be  beset 
by  a crowd  of  carriage  drivers  intent  upon  capturing 
me  bodily.  I finally  selected  one  who  looked  honest 
and  had  a fairly  good-appearing  rig.  He  climbed  to  his 
seat,  another  handed  my  suit  case  up  to  him,  and  with 
the  direction  “Hotel  Cosmopolita”  we  rattled  away 
toward  the  centre  of  the  town,  finally  halting  in  front 
of  the  hotel,  which  faces  the  spacious  plaza. 

It  was  an  attractive-looking  hostelry  from  without 
and  well  situated.  The  room  to  which  I was  shown 
was  typical  of  Mexican  hotels.  When  I came  down 
to  supper,  I was  greeted  by  the  proprietor,  who  proved 
to  be  a German  speaking  very  good  English.  What 
was  my  astonishment  at  this  moment  to  have  a 
young  native  appear  and  demand  dos  reales  for  hand- 
ing my  suit  case  to  the  driver  of  my  carriage  at  the 
station.  I explained  the  circumstances  to  the  land- 
lord, who  in  turn  expressed  himself  to  the  applicant 
in  what  must  have  been  forceful  terms,  to  judge  from 
the  fellow’s  hasty  withdrawal.  I did  not  recall  having 
seen  the  man  though  I suppose  he  was  the  one  who 
had  grabbed  my  suit  case  from  me  and  had  handed  it 
to  the  driver.  My  friend,  the  landlord,  remarked  with 
commendable  candor  that  it  was  because  I looked 
green  and  inexperienced  that  the  fellow  “tried  to 
touch  me.” 

Out  on  the  wide  brick  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  hotel 
several  Americans,  clad  in  khaki,  flannel  shirts,  and 
sombreros,  were  gathered  around  a table  smoking  and 
chatting,  and  after  supper  I lit  a cigar  and  joined 
them.  They  were  miners  and  prospectors  temporarily 
in  from  the  mountains.  The  subject  of  conversation 


174  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


was  the  burial  that  day  in  the  Culiacan  cemetery 
of  an  American.  They  had  contributed  to  give  the 
deceased  a decent  interment,  and  were  shocked  to 
find  that  the  Mexican  gravedigger  had  shovelled  up 
the  bones  of  other  deceased  individuals,  and  frag- 
ments of  the  putrefied  remains  of  a less  ancient  corpse, 
for  whom  friends  and  relations  had  doubtless  failed 
to  pay  ground  rent. 

That  is  the  way  they  conduct  their  cemeteries 
generally  in  Mexico.  The  plots  are  not  sold,  but 
rented,  and  upon  failure  to  duly  and  promptly  pay 
rent,  the  corpse  is  unceremoniously  disinterred,  when 
occasion  arises  to  use  the  ground  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  another.  Coffins,  too,  are  rented.  The 
body  is  taken  to  the  grave  in  one,  and  there  removed, 
so  that  the  same  coffin  serves  over  and  over  again. 
The  burial  of  a coffin  would  be  looked  upon  as  a sinful 
waste. 

This  sprightly  subject  of  conversation  exhausted, 
my  friends  discussed  mines  and  mining,  and  I learned 
that  neatly  all  the  operations  had  been  affected  by 
the  financial  depression  at  home,  and  most  of  the 
mines  indefinitely  closed.  This  was  not  very  pleasant 
news.  I had  planned  to  visit  some  of  the  workings 
on  my  way  to  Tepehuanes,  the  nearest  railway  point 
on  the  plateau  beyond  the  Sierra  Madres,  which  was 
my  next  objective  en  route  to  Durango,  Monterey, 
and  Mexico  City. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


A WEDDING  AND  A BULL-FIGHT 

HE  town  was  just  awakening  when  I arose  in 


the  morning  and  stepped  out  upon  the  hotel 


balcony,  for  a first  daylight  view  of  my  new 
surroundings.  Early  shafts  of  sunlight  were  falling 
upon  the  tall  spires  of  the  beautiful  cathedral  and 
shimmering  in  the  treetops  of  the  plaza,  the  sky  was 
cloudless,  and  the  atmosphere,  sweet  with  the  per- 
fume of  dew-wet  flowers,  was  balmy  and  delicious. 
It  was  a superb  and  inspiring  morning.  For  eight 
months  of  the  year  this  is  the  condition  in  Culiacan. 
The  air  is  balmy  and  full  of  sweetness;  it  is  not  so 
warm  as  to  be  uncomfortable,  and  it  is  never  cold. 
The  sun  shines  all  day  long  from  a soft  blue  sky,  the 
flowers  ever  bloom,  the  grass  and  trees  are  ever  green. 

The  weather  here  is  not  a topic  of  conversation.  It 
would  be  superfluous  and  tiresome  always  to  say  when 
one  meets  an  acquaintance,  "A  fine  day,  sir,”  or 
"Beautiful  weather  we ’re  having.”  So  that  subject, 
with  its  trite  remarks,  is  entirely  eliminated,  and  one 
cannot  fall  back  upon  it  when  conversation  lags.  Even 
during  the  four  months  or  so  of  the  wet,  heated  term 
it  is  the  same,  for  then,  too,  every  one  knows  at  night 
just  what  to  expect  in  the  morning. 

Culiacan  lays  claim  to  ancient  origin  and  a romantic 
past.  There  is  a legend  that  the  Aztecs,  in  their 
migration  to  the  southward,  were  so  charmed  by  the 


175 


176  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


situation,  the  climate,  and  the  luxuriant  flowers  and 
vegetation,  that  they  halted  here,  decided  to  go  no 
farther,  and  built  a town.  They  tarried  in  great  con- 
tent until  one  day  the  god  Quitzalcoatl,  who  had  long 
been  silent,  commanded  them  through  an  oracle  to 
proceed  again  upon  their  journey  and  not  to  stop  until 
they  came  to  a lake  where  they  should  see  an  eagle, 
seated  upon  a cactus,  devouring  a snake.  There  they 
were  to  build  their  city  and  found  their  kingdom. 
And  thus  it  happened  that  Tenochtitlan,  instead  of 
Culiacan,  became  the  seat  of  the  Aztec  Empire. 

Some  of  the  Aztecs  remained  behind  in  Culiacan, 
and  here  the  Spaniards  found  a considerable  settle- 
ment when  they  explored  the  country  adjacent  to  the 
Gulf  of  California.  It  was  a rare  situation,  and  the 
conquerors  so  quickly  made  of  it  a military  stronghold 
that  only  nine  years  after  the  Conquest,  when  two 
escaped  priests,  who  had  been  members  of  an  expe- 
dition which  was  massacred  by  Indians  in  what  is 
now  Arizona,  found  their  way  here,  the  commander 
of  Culiacan  fortress  was  able,  on  a day’s  notice,  to 
despatch  a thousand  troops  to  avenge  the  massacre, 
and  incidentally  to  force  the  untractable  Arizona 
Indians  to  become  Christians. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  this  and  others  of  the 
pretty  legends  recorded  in  the  course  of  our  narrative 
are  substantiated  history,  but  only  that  they  are  about 
as  well  authenticated  as  two-thirds  of  what  we  read 
of  the  “history”  of  Mexico  previous  to  the  Conquest, 
and  as  reliable  as  most  of  the  surmises  of  the  anti- 
quarians, who  consistently  disagree  with  one  another. 
These  legends  are  repeated  as  I heard  them,  and  the 
reader  may  believe  them  in  toto,  in  part,  or  not  at  all, 


Cave  with  adobe  front,  used  as  a dwelling,  near  Culiacan 


An  American  ranch-house  near  Culiacan 


A WEDDING  AND  A BULL-FIGHT  177 


according  to  his  credulity.  My  own  credulity  is  weak. 
However,  the  word  “Culiacan”  is  of  Indian  origin  and 
that  is  something. 

I purchased  some  delicious  fruit  from  a street 
vender  — whom  I later  learned  was  a leper,  — and 
after  a walk  in  the  plaza  and  breakfast  at  the  hotel, 
called  at  the  office  of  the  Sinaloa  Land  Company, 
and  presented  a letter  of  introduction  from  its  presi- 
dent in  Los  Angeles  to  Mr.  J.  C.  McCarthy,  its  resident 
manager.  Mr.  McCarthy  welcomed  me  most  cor- 
dially, and  not  only  expressed  an  interest  in  my  trip 
but  was  good  enough  to  offer  to  assist  me  in  my  quest 
for  information  about  the  country.  He  had  spent 
many  years  in  various  parts  of  Mexico,  with  unusual 
opportunities  for  observation,  and  I felt  myself  fortu- 
nate indeed  in  thus  securing  his  kindly  cooperation. 
I accepted  an  invitation  to  drive  with  him  in  the  after- 
noon, and  in  his  company  saw  and  learned  more  of 
the  capital  city  of  Sinaloa  in  two  or  three  hours  than 
I could  have  observed  otherwise  in  a week. 

Culiacan  has  at  present  a population  of  about 
fourteen  thousand.  Its  railroad  connection  with  the 
coast  makes  it  so  accessible  to  the  Pacific  steamers, 
and  therefore  to  San  Francisco  by  that  route,  and  to 
the  southwestern  United  States  by  way  of  the  Gulf 
of  California  steamers  to  Guaymas,  and  thence  by  the 
Sonora  Railroad  which  connects  with  the  Southern 
Pacific  Railroad,  that  it  is  quite  Americanized  and 
modernized  in  many  respects.  It  has  several  good, 
up-to-date  stores  where  nearly  anything  one  may 
desire  can  be  found.* 

* Since  my  visit  the  new  railroad  has  been  put  into  operation  to 
Mazatlan,  and  one  may  ride  in  a Pullman  car,  without  change,  from 
Los  Angeles  to  Culiacan. 


178  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


Being  the  seat  of  the  Sinaloa  State  government,  it 
numbers  among  its  residents  some  of  the  best  families 
of  the  Republic;  and  in  the  better  society  one  finds  a 
degree  of  refinement  and  culture  not  usual  in  Mexican 
cities  of  its  size.  Several  of  the  younger  set,  par- 
ticularly, have  travelled  and  been  educated  in  the 
United  States  and  Europe.  Naturally  they  reflect 
what  they  have  absorbed  abroad,  and  the  effect  of  it 
is  plainly  visible.  The  leading  families  are  almost 
wholly  of  Spanish  origin,  though  some  of  them  have 
intermarried  with  Europeans  and  Americans,  and  it 
may  be  pertinent  to  remark  that  young  American 
gentlemen  are  looked  upon  by  the  marriageable  ladies 
with  much  favor. 

These  advanced  conditions  of  Culiacan  society  are 
due,  in  no  small  measure,  to  the  influence  of  the  en- 
lightened and  progressive  governor,  Senor  Francisco 
Canedo.*  He  is  a stanch  supporter  of  President  Diaz, 
— one  of  that  group  of  patriots  mentioned  in  an  earlier 
chapter,  who  are  working  for  the  purity  of  government 
and  morals  and  for  the  uplifting  of  their  country.  There 
is,  too,  a remarkable  public  spirit  manifest  in  the  State 
legislature.  Broad  and  just  laws  have  been  enacted 
and  are  intelligently  administered,  and  life  and  prop- 
erty of  foreigners  and  natives  alike  are  as  well  pro- 
tected as  in  the  United  States. 

One  of  the  things  that  impressed  me  in  my  after- 
noon drive  with  Mr.  McCarthy  was  the  cleanliness  of 
the  streets.  In  this  respect  Culiacan  is  far  above  the 
average  Mexican  city.  The  laws  require  that  every 
householder  shall  each  morning  sweep  clean  the  side- 
walk and  street  opposite  his  house,  and  this  require- 

* Recently  deceased. 


A WEDDING  AND  A BULL-FIGHT  179 


ment  induces  care.  It  is  a conceit  of  the  inhabitants 
that  they  have  the  best  kept  city  in  the  Republic,  and 
they  try  to  live  up  to  it. 

There  is  a large  cotton  mill  situated  here,  where 
coarse  cotton  fabrics  and  zerapes,  such  as  are  worn 
by  the  peons,  are  manufactured.  We  were  shown 
through  it,  and  I could  almost  have  imagined  myself 
in  a New  England  mill.  It  was  running  to  its  full 
capacity  on  cotton  raised  on  local  haciendas. 

Culiacan  has  two  plazas,  and  music  is  to  be  heard 
nearly  every  afternoon  or  evening  in  one  or  the  other 
of  them.  The  boys’  band  from  the  Industrial  Reform 
School,  a Mexican  institution  unique  to  Culiacan,  was 
playing  in  one  of  them  and  we  halted  our  carriage  to 
enjoy  the  very  excellent  music,  which,  it  might  be 
remarked,  did  not  partake  of  the  mournful  character 
so  noticeable  in  Tepic. 

After  dinner  that  evening  I took  early  leave  of  Mr. 
McCarthy,  that  I might  attend  the  cathedral,  where 
the  religious  half  of  a marriage  ceremony  was  to  be 
performed  in  public.  The  civil  half  was  reserved  for 
the  seclusion  of  the  home  of  the  bride’s  parents,  and 
to  this  only  invited  guests  were  admitted. 

The  general  public  and  myself  were  lined  up  on 
either  side  of  the  cathedral  interior,  leaving  a wide 
aisle  from  the  broad  main  entrance  doors,  in  front, 
to  the  altar.  There  we  waited  patiently  for  half  an 
hour,  until  a signal  was  given  for  the  music  to  begin, 
and  the  wedding  party  appeared. 

The  bride  was  very  attractive,  as  were  the  eight 
bridesmaids.  I do  not  remember  anything  about  the 
gentlemen.  I forgot  to  look  at  them.  The  ladies 
were  dressed  in  some  sort  of  fluffy  white  stuff,  the 


180  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


bride  wearing  a veil,  and  the  bridesmaids  white  lace 
mantillas.  None  of  them  wore  gloves,  save  possibly 
the  bride,  and  of  that  I am  not  certain.  To  the 
advantage  of  the  exchequer  of  the  head  of  the  family 
ladies  do  not  wear  gloves  and  bonnets  in  Western 
Mexico. 

At  the  altar  the  bride’s  father  duly  asserted  that 
she  was  his  legitimate  daughter,  and  with  solemn  ser- 
vice the  padre  performed  the  marriage  ceremony. 
Then  the  band  struck  up  and  bride  and  groom  walked 
out  with  their  guests,  to  be  driven  to  the  home  of  the 
bride’s  father,  where  a civil  officer  was  waiting  to 
legalize  the  ceremony.  Here,  in  accordance  with  cus- 
tom, all  doors  were  locked,  no  guest  allowed  to  depart, 
and  the  night  was  given  over  to  dancing,  champagne, 
and  hilarity  until  four  o’clock  in  the  morning,  when 
the  whole  party  returned  to  the  cathedral  to  attend 
mass. 

Every  traveller  in  Mexico  desires  to  see  one  bull- 
fight before  he  leaves  the  country,  and  an  opportunity 
to  satisfy  my  curiosity  in  this  respect  was  offered  me 
soon  after  my  arrival  in  Culiacan.  I was  walking  with 
an  acquaintance  one  morning,  when  a band  marched 
past,  playing  lively  airs,  accompanied  by  several  men 
distributing  hand  bills.  They  were  announcing  a bull- 
fight to  take  place  that  afternoon. 

Every  American  in  the  place  had  seen  a bull-fight, 
and  I was  unable  to  find  any  willing  to  have  his  sensi- 
bilities again  shocked  by  the  spectacle;  so  a little 
before  the  hour  announced  for  it  to  begin,  I made 
my  way  alone  to  the  grandstand  in  the  arena. 

Though  it  was  early  when  I arrived,  the  spectators 
were  already  rapidly  filling  the  seats.  Men,  women, 


A WEDDING  AND  A BULL-FIGHT  181 


and  children,  for  the  most  part  the  peon  class,  crowded 
the  ordinary  seats,  while  the  more  prosperous  ones 
occupied  the  grandstand.  I was  happy  to  note  that 
not  many  among  them  belonged  to  the  better  society 
of  the  city,  and  that  State  officials  were  conspicuously 
absent.  This,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  an  indication 
that,  though  bull-fights  were  permitted,  the  better 
people  were  not  altogether  in  harmony  with  them. 

The  arena  was  about  eighty  feet  in  diameter,  encir- 
cled by  a fence  five  or  six  feet  in  height,  behind 
which,  in  tiers,  were  seated  the  spectators.  In  front 
of  this  fence,  at  intervals  of  a few  feet,  shields  were 
built  as  a retreat  for  the  fighters  when  closely  pressed 
by  an  infuriated  bull. 

Amid  the  clamor  and  shouts  of  the  peons  the  actors 
marched  in  and  around  the  arena  before  taking  their 
respective  places.  They  were  dressed  in  tight-fitting 
trousers,  short  jackets  of  bright-colored  velvet,  and 
velvet  capes,  elaborately  trimmed  with  gilt  lace. 
Presently  a bugle  sounded  and  the  capes  were  thrown 
to  favorites  in  the  audience  to  hold,  as  the  gate  opened 
to  admit  the  bull. 

In  a moment  the  animal  appeared  and  at  the  in- 
stant it  passed  through  the  gate  two  vicious  barbed 
darts,  called  banderillas,  surmounted  by  rosettes  and 
streamers  of  colored  paper,  were  sunk  deep  into  its 
shoulders.  Thus  driven  by  pain  into  a spirit  of  self- 
defence,  the  poor  beast  at  first  rushed  around  the  ring, 
and  then  stopped  to  shake  its  head  and  shoulders  in 
a vain  attempt  to  dislodge  the  torturing  darts.  From 
the  wounds  blood  ran  down  its  quivering  sides. 

At  this  moment  a mounted  picador  charged  with 
a lance  and,  as  its  sharp  point  stuck  into  the  bull’s 


182  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


shoulder,  the  animal  turned  to  charge  the  horse.  Usu- 
ally an  old  horse  is  used  for  this  purpose,  and  the  bull 
is  permitted  to  gore  it.  Not  infrequently  the  horse 
is  driven  about  the  ring,  to  the  delight  of  the  audi- 
ence, with  its  entrails  dragging  upon  the  ground.  In 
this  instance,  however,  the  horse  was  a good  one,  and 
was  well  protected  by  leather.  Three  times  the  picador 
charged,  and  the  bleeding,  tortured  bull  returned  the 
assault.  Then  the  picador  withdrew  while  a capeador 
flaunted  a red  cape  in  front  of  the  bull  to  distract  it. 

Now  came  the  placing  of  more  banderillas.  The 
banderillero,  or  man  who  manipulated  them,  took  a 
position  directly  in  front  of  the  bull,  and  shook  them 
in  its  face  to  attract  its  attention.  The  animal  charged, 
and  the  darts  were  both  stuck  deep  as  the  man  stepped 
lightly  to  one  side.  There  were  two  of  these  men, 
and  each  placed  two  pairs  of  banderillas  in  the  bull’s 
shoulders,  besides  the  two  original  ones,  during  which 
time  every  conceivable  means  to  torment  the  poor 
animal  were  resorted  to.  Once  the  bull  nearly  caught 
one  of  the  men,  and  I was,  I must  confess,  almost 
sorry  it  did  not  succeed.  The  fellow  was  knocked 
down  and  trampled  upon,  but  not  badly  injured. 

Finally  the  bull,  unable  to  fight  further,  with  blood 
streaming  from  its  many  wounds,  stood  trembling  and 
exhausted.  Then,  at  a signal,  came  the  matador  with 
a long  thin  sword,  which  he  jabbed  several  times  into 
the  bull,  reaching  over  the  horns  and  sinking  it  deep, 
until  the  poor  beast  tottered  and  fell.  A team  of 
mules  were  driven  in,  a rope  attached  to  the  bull’s 
horns,  and  the  animal,  still  living,  was  dragged  away 
to  the  vociferous  applause  of  the  people. 

Four  other  bulls  were  tortured,  but  only  one  of 


The  hull-fight 


Indian  pottery  vender 


A WEDDING  AND  A BULL-FIGHT  183 


them  was  killed.  One  poor,  frightened  animal  abso- 
lutely refused  to  get  angry,  and  in  disgust  they  drove  it 
away.  I saw  one  of  these  animals  an  hour  after  it  was 
driven  out,  standing  in  a corral  with  nine  of  the  ugly 
darts  still  hanging  in  its  quivering,  bleeding  body. 

During  the  performance  some  of  the  seats  opposite 
me  broke  down,  and  several  people  were  badly  in- 
jured, one  woman,  I understood,  quite  seriously.  The 
accident  did  not  delay  the  bull-fight  for  an  instant. 
In  fact  no  attention  was  paid  to  it,  except  that  those 
who  were  not  injured  made  a scramble  to  secure  new 
points  of  vantage. 

Bull-fighting  possesses  no  element  of  sport  what- 
ever. It  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  an  attempt  to 
satisfy  the  craving  of  the  savage  nature  of  a half- 
civilized  people  to  witness  scenes  of  torture  and  blood- 
shed. It  is  not  far  removed  from  the  gladiatorial 
combats  of  ancient  Rome  — a survival  of  them,  in 
fact  — and  it  should  no  more  have  a place  in  our 
twentieth-century  civilization  than  they. 

I am  happy  to  say  that  only  one  American  besides 
myself  was  present  at  this  bull-fight,  and  he  was  a 
photographer  filling  a commission.  It  has  been  said 
and  written  many  times  that  bull-fighting  would  not 
long  exist  in  Mexico  if  it  were  not  for  the  patronage 
of  Americans.  My  observation  completely  refutes  the 
charge.  It  is  not  founded  upon  fact  in  any  instance, 
but  is  the  statement  of  maudlin  sentimentalists  who 
desire,  at  the  expense  of  truth  and  their  own  country- 
men, to  throw  a halo  around  a people  whom  they  look 
upon  with  romantic  veneration,  and  whom  they  endow 
with  a refinement,  gentleness,  and  artistic  instinct 
entirely  foreign  to  the  subject. 


CHAPTER  XX 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  A BOOM 

THE  State  of  Sinaloa  stretches  along  the  west- 
ern coast  of  Mexico  for  a distance  of  nearly 
four  hundred  miles.  It  has  an  average 
breadth  of  eighty  miles,  which  carries  its  eastern 
boundary  inland  amongst  the  jagged  peaks  of  the 
Sierra  Madres.  While  the  western  half  of  the  State  is 
a comparatively  level  and  arable  country,  the  eastern 
half  is  rough  and  broken.  Of  the  large  area  included 
within  these  boundaries,  it  is  safe  to  say  six-tenths 
is  practically  an  unknown  wilderness,  traversed  only 
by  obscure  and  difficult  trails.  And  yet,  in  undevel- 
oped natural  wealth,  resources  both  agricultural  and 
mineral,  and  in  its  splendid  water  powers,  with  the 
opportunities  they  offer  for  manufacturing  enterprises, 
Sinaloa  is  probably  not  approached  by  any  other  State 
in  Mexico. 

Governor  Canedo  is  fully  alive  to  this  fact,  and  he 
realizes,  too,  that  the  only  hope  for  development  lies 
in  the  attraction  of  foreign,  and  particularly  American, 
capital  and  enterprise.  For  some  time  he  has  been 
lending  his  efforts  to  this  end,  with  the  result  that 
to-day  foreign  investors  are  assured  full  and  ample 
protection,  and  unusual  opportunities  are  offered 
them,  a condition  that  has  only  just  begun  to  be 
realized  and  taken  advantage  of. 

The  Sinaloa  Land  Company,  heretofore  referred  to, 

184 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  A BOOM 


185 


is  an  American  corporation  with  headquarters  in  Los 
Angeles,  California.  A few  years  ago  it  accepted  a 
commission  from  the  Sinaloa  State  Government  to 
survey  a portion  of  the  State,  and  in  return  received 
a concession  of  approximately  two  million  acres  of 
agricultural  and  timber  lands — an  area  equal  to  two- 
thirds  of  the  State  of  Connecticut.  Some  of  this  vast 
tract  is  semi-desert,  some  of  it  well  watered  and  natu- 
rally productive  without  artificial  watering,  and  some 
of  it  rocky  and  useless  mountain  land.  The  company 
has  now  under  construction  extensive  irrigation  plants, 
which  will  eventually  make  fertile,  and  easily  equal 
to  the  irrigated  section  of  Southern  California,  even 
the  semi-desert  lands.  Numerous  large  and  never 
failing  rivers  assure  a certain  and  inexhaustible  supply 
of  water,  many  times  sufficient  for  the  purposes  of 
irrigation. 

With  its  immense  land  holdings,  this  company  is 
certain  to  be  an  important  factor  in  the  development 
of  the  State.  It  is  intended  that  the  agricultural 
lands  of  the  company  shall  be  divided  into  farms  to 
suit  the  requirements  of  settlers,  after  the  plan  fol- 
lowed in  California,  and  as  soon  as  proper  facilities  are 
established  they  are  to  be  thrown  open  to  American 
colonists.  When  this  takes  place,  these  lands  are 
pretty  sure  to  fill  up  rapidly,  and  it  is  hard  to  prophesy 
the  ultimate  results  of  the  movement. 

During  the  time  that  I made  Culiacan  my  head- 
quarters, I took  occasion  to  observe  as  much  of  the 
present  conditions  of  the  neighboring  country  as 
possible.  One  of  my  excursions  was  to  the  rich 
agricultural  country  adjacent  to  Yebbatito  las  Chivas. 
This  district  is  representative  of  a large  portion  of 


186  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


lower  Sinaloa.  Here  I rode  over  a section  of  one  of 
the  cultivated  haciendas  owned  by  the  Sinaloa  Land 
Company.  Corn,  beans,  barley,  alfalfa,  and  sugar- 
cane are  the  chief  products  of  this  ranch,  and  I saw 
one  considerable  field  of  young  banana  plants  recently 
set  out.  They  raise  two,  and  sometimes  three,  crops 
a year  without  artificial  watering,  and  corn  yields 
under  ordinary  conditions  from  four  hundred  to  five 
hundred  fold. 

There  is  a ready  market  for  corn  at  an  average 
price  of  seventy-five  to  eighty  cents,  gold,  per  bushel. 
At  the  time  I was  in  Culiacan  corn  was  selling  at  one 
dollar.  As  an  instance  of  the  rapid  maturity  of 
crops  here,  I might  say  that  on  November  twenty- 
fifth  I saw  a field  of  corn  just  appearing  above  the 
soil,  and  on  January  first,  when  I visited  it  again,  it 
was  higher  than  my  head,  and  in  tassel. 

Beans,  too,  yield  marvellously,  and  as  they  are  a 
food  staple  of  Mexico  a ready  market  and  a good 
price  is  always  assured.  Sugar-cane  averages  from 
thirty  to  forty  tons  to  the  acre,  and  commands,  at 
the  mill,  two  dollars  per  ton,  giving  a net  profit,  over 
and  above  all  expenses  of  labor,  cartage,  and  freight, 
of  about  seventy-five  cents  per  ton.  This,  of  course, 
applies  to  points  not  too  far  removed  from  the  mill. 
Two  or  three  crops  are  grown  each  year. 

At  present  the  four  principal  crops  of  this  locality, 
speaking  generally  of  the  territory  adjacent  to  Culia- 
can, are  corn,  beans,  sugar-cane,  and  cotton,  though 
almost  any  of  the  tropical  and  temperate  zone  crops 
grow  to  perfection  at  the  various  elevations.  The 
soil  and  climate  are  ideal  for  the  culture  of  oranges, 
and  fruits  generally;  but  until  quick  railroad  com- 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  A BOOM 


187 


munication  is  established,  it  will  be  useless  to  devote 
attention  to  them. 

The  culture  of  henequen  {agave  rigida  elongata),  or 
fibre  plant  — also  known  as  Sisal  hemp  — offers  great 
possibilities,  though  as  yet  it  has  received  but  scant 
attention  in  this  part  of  Mexico.  Henequen  is  a 
species  of  the  century  plant.  It  has  a short,  thick 
stem,  with  leaves  from  six  to  seven  feet  in  length, 
three  inches  wide  at  the  base,  widening  to  five  inches 
at  the  centre,  and  two  inches  thick  at  the  base,  with 
lateral  teeth,  one  or  two  inches  apart,  its  entire  length. 
Pulque  and  taquila  are  manufactured  from  broader 
leafed  varieties  of  the  same  plant.  That  utilized  for 
pulque  is  somewhat  lighter  in  shade  than  the  hemp 
species,  and  the  taquila  variety  a somewhat  darker 
green.  The  fibre  plant  grows  spontaneously  on  almost 
any  soil,  yields  rich  returns,  and  may  be  counted 
upon  as  a safe  crop.  Approximately  eight  hundred 
plants  are  set  out  to  the  acre,  and  after  development, 
which  requires  from  three  to  five  years,  each  plant 
yields  annually,  during  the  next  ten  years,  an  average 
of  thirty  leaves,  or  twenty-four  thousand  leaves  the 
acre,  producing  twenty-four  hundred  pounds  of  cleaned 
fibre.  Baled  fibre  commands  in  San  Francisco  market 
from  five  and  a half  to  seven  and  a half  cents  per  pound 
depending  upon  quality.  It  is  manufactured  into 
binding  twine  and  cordage  in  the  United  States. 
There  are  no  cordage  mills  in  Mexico,  but  rope,  nets, 
and  brushes  are  largely  made  by  hand  from  the  hene- 
quen fibre. 

Rough,  rocky  ground  or  steep  hillsides,  where  noth- 
ing else  will  grow,  may  be  devoted  to  fibre  culture 
with  good  results,  though  the  plant  matures  somewhat 


188  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


earlier  in  the  moist  climate  of  the  lower  levels.  While 
advisable,  it  is  not  necessary  to  plough  the  ground 
when  the  plants  are  set  out,  and  subsequent  working 
of  the  soil  is  unnecessary.  There  is  no  fixed  time  for 
harvesting  the  crop,  that  being  determined  by  signs 
of  maturity.  One  man  with  a machete  can  cut  eighteen 
hundred  leaves  a day.  He  is  followed  by  a boy,  who 
trims  off  the  thorny  teeth,  and  the  spine  on  the  end, 
after  which  the  leaves  are  transported  on  mule-back 
or  in  carts  to  the  cleaning  machine,  known  as  the 
raspador,  where  the  hemp  is  extracted  from  the  pulp. 
One  machine,  attended  by  a man  and  three  boys, 
will  clean,  on  an  average,  one  hundred  thousand 
leaves  a day.  The  fibre,  as  it  comes  from  the  machine, 
is  hung  upon  galvanized  iron  wire  racks,  and,  when 
thoroughly  dried,  is  put  into  bales  of  four  hundred 
pounds  each,  and  is  then  ready  for  market. 

Before  the  coming  of  the  Spaniards,  henequen  was 
utilized  in  Yucatan  by  the  natives,  but  it  is  only  in 
comparatively  recent  years  that  it  has  become  of 
great  commercial  importance.  In  1839,  an  associa- 
tion was  formed  in  Mexico  to  promote  its  cultivation, 
but,  with  the  rough  wooden  instruments  then  employed 
in  its  manufacture,  the  venture  proved  unprofitable. 
Later,  the  Government  offered  a bonus  for  a practical 
fibre-extracting  machine,  and  a Franciscan  friar 
invented  the  raspador  and  wTon  the  bonus.  With  a 
few  slight  improvements,  this  is  the  machine  in  use 
at  the  present  day.  It  is  a simple  and  inexpensive 
contrivance. 

Wdiat  California  was  in  forty-nine  and  the  early 
fifties,  Sinaloa  is  to-day  — primitive,  new,  and  but 
just  beginning  to  be  appreciated.  The  prospector 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  A BOOM 


189 


and  miner  are  on  the  ground,  and  the  land-looker  is 
appearing. 

Culiacan  is  the  outfitting  point  for  the  prospectors, 
and  any  evening  one  may  see  a group  of  them  in 
khaki  and  broad-brimmed  sombreros,  lounging  about 
tables  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  cantina  of  the 
Hotel  Cosmopolita,  smoking  and  telling  stories  and 
exchanging  experiences.  These  are  the  trail-blazers 
of  the  Mexican  Sierras,  the  advance  guard  of  civiliza- 
tion, the  counterpart  of  those  pioneers  who  drove 
our  frontier  beyond  the  Mississippi  and  across  the 
Rockies  to  the  Pacific.  They  are  Americans,  and  most 
of  them  veteran  gold-hunters  of  our  own  Western 
mountains  and  deserts  — a rough-and-ready,  big- 
hearted,  red-blooded  lot  of  fellows,  capable,  fearless, 
and  energetic.  They  are  laying  the  cornerstone  of 
this  new  land. 

The  vanguard  of  land  investors  has  already  appeared 
in  Sinaloa.  I met  three  or  four  of  them,  who  were 
looking  over  haciendas  with  a view  to  purchasing  and 
holding  the  land  for  future  colonization.  But  these 
men  work  in  secret,  always  fearful  that  some  one  will 
discover  their  plum  tree  and  pluck  the  fruit  before 
it  is  ripe.  They  try,  with  indifferent  success,  to  cover 
their  movements  and  purpose  with  a shroud  of  mys- 
tery. Even  the  native  hidalgos  are  beginning  to  open 
their  eyes  to  the  fact  that  something  is  about  to 
happen,  and  they  are  becoming  suspicious  and  reluc- 
tant to  sell  their  holdings. 

Sinaloa  is  on  the  edge  of  a boom,  and  it  is  safe 
to  predict  for  it  a great  future. 


CHAPTER  XXI 


THE  TRAILS  AND  THE  PROSPECTORS 

THE  nearest  railroad  point  to  the  eastward  of 
Culiacan  is  Tepehuanes,  a small  town  on  the 
central  Mexican  plateau.  Between  Culiacan 
and  Tepehuanes  the  Sierra  Madres,  stretching  north 
and  south,  form  a mighty  and  almost  impassable 
barrier.  The  only  links  connecting  the  two  towns  are 
mule  trails  of  the  roughest  and  most  difficult  char- 
acter. These  trails  mount  the  Sierras  sharply,  on  the 
western  side  rising  to  an  altitude  of  nearly  ten  thou- 
sand feet  before  they  begin  their  descent  on  the  oppo- 
site slope  to  the  plateau;  and  a journey  over  them 
is  attended  with  enough  danger  to  rob  it  of  monotony, 
and  to  add  to  it  the  spice  of  adventure. 

This  was  the  route  that  I was  to  take  to  Mexico 
City.  It  would  give  me  an  opportunity  to  see  the 
wildest  sections  of  Sinaloa  and  Durango  States,  and 
to  come  in  intimate  contact  with  the  mountain  Indians, 
before  leaving  my  mules  for  the  railroad.  For  this 
reason  I chose  it,  rather  than  to  take  a long  detour 
of  several  hundred  miles  to  the  south  by  the  more 
conventional  stage  route  to  San  Marcos,  and  it  was 
with  eager  anticipation  that  I made  preparations  for 
the  journey  late  in  November. 

I had  a choice  of  two  trails.  One,  known  as  the 
“river  trail,”  follows  the  Culiacan  River,  through  its 
winding  canyons,  into  the  heart  of  the  mountains,  to 

190 


THE  TRAILS  AND  PROSPECTORS  191 


its  junction  with  the  Topia  River,  and  thence  along 
the  latter  river  to  the  mining  town  of  Topia,  by  more 
or  less  easy  grades.  At  Topia  it  rises  suddenly  to 
the  heights  and  takes  a southeasterly  direction  over 
the  ridges  to  Tepehuanes.  This  trail  is  the  one  gen- 
erally used  by  miners  and  is  much  the  easier  one  of 
the  two;  but  as  it  crosses  the  river  some  three  hundred 
and  sixty  times  between  Culiacan  and  Topia,  it  is  only 
passable  during  the  dry  season,  when  the  streams  are 
low  enough  to  ford  in  safety.  Even  at  this  season 
storms  are  liable  to  occur  in  the  high  altitudes,  and 
sometimes  sudden  and  unexpected  rises  of  the  rivers 
take  place,  when  they  should  normally  be  low,  and  at 
such  times  travellers  caught  between  the  high,  steep 
walls  of  the  river  canyons  find  themselves  in  an 
unpleasant  and  often  dangerous  position. 

The  other  trail  is  known  as  the  “ upper”  or  “moun- 
tain trail,”  and  ascends  abruptly  from  the  lower  level 
of  Culiacan  to  the  lofty  heights  of  the  Sierra  Madres, 
where  it  traverses  broken  ridges,  skirting  the  upper 
walls  of  canyons,  dipping  now'  and  again  into  deep 
chasms  or  across  canyons,  but  keeping  generally  to 
the  heights.  This  trail  is  seldom  used  by  any  but 
Indians,  for  it  follows  an  exceedingly  difficult  route, 
and  to  traverse  it  is  considered  no  small  undertaking. 

As  it  was  my  desire  to  see  all  I could  of  the  interior 
country,  I resolved  to  travel  both  the  river  and  the 
mountain  trail.  I made  my  plans  accordingly  to  go 
to  Tepehuanes  by  the  upper  trail,  and,  after  my  visit 
to  Mexico  City,  return  by  the  other,  thus  securing  all 
the  experiences  the  trip  could  afford. 

It  was  not  easy  to  find  a competent  guide.  Though 
several  mozos  knew  the  river  trail  to  Topia,  there  were 


192  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


only  two  or  three  available  who  had  ever  been  so  far 
as  Tepehuanes.  But  one  of  these  had  been  over  the 
upper  trail  at  all,  and  he  was  not  acquainted  with 
it  for  any  considerable  distance  into  the  mountains. 
He  was  the  nearest  approach  to  a guide  that  I could 
find,  however,  and  finally,  upon  his  assurance  that, 
through  inquiry  from  Indians  whom  we  should  cer- 
tainly meet,  he  could  doubtless  find  his  way,  and  upon 
the  recommendation  of  a Culiacan  merchant  that  he 
was  a man  upon  whom  I could  depend  to  look  after 
my  interests  and  not  kill  and  rob  me  while  I slept, 
I engaged  him  for  the  journey.  I congratulated  my- 
self upon  being  so  fortunate  as  to  secure  him,  for  he 
had  the  appearance  of  a superior  man,  with  an  intelli- 
gence far  above  that  of  the  average  mozo. 

Two  saddle  mules  and  a pack  mule  were  placed  at 
my  disposal  by  Mr.  McCarthy,  of  the  Sinaloa  Land 
Company,  my  provisions  and  outfit  purchased.  Prepa- 
rations finally  completed,  I arranged  to  leave  Culiacan 
on  the  morning  of  November  twenty-eight. 

I had  planned  an  early  start,  but  plans  go  awry  in 
Mexico,  where  one  has  to  depend  upon  native  ser- 
vants; for  neither  abuse  nor  prayer  will  rouse  a Mexi- 
can mozo  out  of  the  even  tenor  of  his  languid  way  or 
inspire  in  him  a semblance  of  activity.  My  mozo,  in 
spite  of  his  superior  personality,  was  no  exception  to 
the  rule,  and  though  I had  directed  him  to  be  ready 
with  the  mules  promptly  at  seven  o’clock,  it  was  not 
until  ten  that  he  appeared,  placid  and  smiling.  Even 
then,  in  spite  of  my  impatience,  I had  to  wait  still 
another  half-hour  while  he  returned  to  the  masson  for 
some  forgotten  article. 

My  friends,  the  miners,  had  warned  me  to  order 


On  the  canyon  trail 


Wilkinson 


THE  TRAILS  AND  PROSPECTORS 


193 


the  mules  for  five  o’clock  if  I wished  to  leave  at  seven, 
but  I had  not  heeded  the  warning.  Now,  while  I 
awaited  the  pleasure  of  my  mozo,  they  proceeded  to 
give  me  further  advice  and  warnings  which  were 
calculated  to  put  me  on  the  alert  and  add  to  my  wis- 
dom. They  looked  upon  me  not  exactly  as  a tender- 
foot, perhaps,  but  as  a stranger  in  a strange  land  who 
was  not  quite  familiar  with  the  conditions,  and  who 
might  well  profit  by  a little  instruction. 

“What  kind  of  a gun  have  you?”  asked  one. 

“A  Colt  forty-five,”  I answered. 

“That ’s  good.  Them ’s  the  best,”  said  he,  “a  good 
old  single-action.  You  better  buckle  it  on  soon ’s 
you  get  out  of  town,  and  keep  it  prominent  and  handy, 
and  loose  in  the  holster,  for  sometimes  there ’s  hold- 
ups. If  any  stranger  you  meet  puts  his  hand  on  his 
gun  you  get  yours  out  first  an’  shoot,  an’  ask  questions 
afterward.  But  never  pull  your  gun  unless  you  ’re 
goin’  to  use  it,  and  when  you  do  pull  it,  kill  every 
greaser  in  sight,  so ’s  there  won’t  be  no  one  t’  tell 
tales.  If  one  gets  away  he ’s  plum  sure  t’  get  you  or 
make  trouble  for  you  afterwards.  One  of  our  boys 
was  held  up  one  day  by  two  greasers,  an’  he  got  in 
trouble  by  not  killin’  ’em.  They  had  th’  drop  on 
him,  but  he  was  pretty  quick  with  his  Colt  an’  they 
did  n’t  shoot  straight.  When  they  saw  he  was  ready 
for  ’em  they  was  scared  and  run.  He  could  have  got 
’em  both,  but  there  was  more  fun  seein’  ’em  run,  an’ 
he  just  plugged  one  in  th’  arm  for  luck  and  to  hurry 
’em  up  some.  Then  he  shot  in  th’  air,  and  laughed 
till  they  was  out  of  sight,  which  wasn’t  long,  seein’ 
they  was  some  anxious  t’  disappear. 

“After  a while  he  come  back  to  town,  and  there 


194  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


them  two  greasers  was  waitin’  for  him.  They  had  him 
arrested  for  holdin’  them  up.  They  both  swore  in 
court  he  did  it,  and  with  two  witnesses  against  his 
word  things  looked  pretty  bad  for  him,  and  he  was 
some  worried.  When  th’  judge  asked  him  what  he 
had  to  say  for  himself,  he  says,  in  a injured  sort  of 
tone: 

“‘ Judge,  do  you  suppose  it’s  probable  that  either 
of  them  fellers  would  be  livin’  if  I’d  pulled  my  gun 
on  ’em?  When  an  American  shoots  he  most  generally 
kills,  an’  don’t  make  no  botch  of  it  by  just  scratchin’ 
a man’s  arm.  I don’t  brag,  Judge,  but  I generally 
shoots  pretty  straight.  Now,  you  don’t  suppose  I’d 
have  let  ’em  go,  do  you?’ 

“‘No,’  says  th’  judge,  ‘I  think  you’d  have  killed 
’em  both.  Any  American  would  have.  You’re  dis- 
charged.’ 

“Th’  moral  is,”  added  the  prospector,  “kill  th’ 
greaser  that  draws  on  you  and  all  th’  witnesses  he 
has  with  him,  and  you  won’t  have  any  trouble  after- 
ward.” 

I thanked  my  advisor,  and  remarked  that  I had  a 
good  mozo,  and  I thought  that  between  us  we  made 
a rather  formidable  outfit,  and  would  get  through  all 
right. 

“Keep  an  eye  on  your  mozo  too,”  advised  another 
of  my  friends.  “Don’t  be  too  sure  of  him,  an’  don’t 
be  too  confidin’.  You  can’t  always  trust  ’em.  There ’s 
lots  of  ’em  would  knife  you  for  your  outfit.  Once  there 
was  a stranger  started  out  from  here  on  a prospectin’ 
trip  with  a mozo  he  picked  up  in  town  just  like  you ’ve 
done.  Th’  stranger  was  a new  hand  in  th’  country, 
and  thought  th’  greaser  was  a innocent  feller  with 


THE  TRAILS  AND  PROSPECTORS  195 


wings  sproutin’  ready  to  go  to  glory,  and  he  trusted 
th’  greaser  to  anything.  They  was  ridin’  in  th’  moun- 
tains one  day  when  th’  mozo,  bein’  ahead,  slips  off 
his  mule  and  runs  back,  say  in’:  'Give  me  your  rifle, 
quick,  I want  to  shoot  a deer  I see.’  Th’  man  gives 
up  th’  gun,  and  before  he  knows  it  th’  greaser  has  him 
covered,  and  says,  'You  ’re  th’  deer,’  and  shoots. 

"After  a while  th’  man  comes  to.  His  outfit  is 
gone  an’  so  is  th’  mozo,  an’  he ’s  pretty  bad  off.  But 
he  takes  to  crawlin’  an’  strugglin’  along,  an’  after  two 
or  three  days  reaches  an  Indian  shack,  his  wound  all 
maggoty,  an’  he  most  dead.  Th’  Indians  packed 
him  right  off  to  town,  an’  th’  doctor  fixed  him  up  an’ 
he  got  well. 

"Th’  mozo  thought  the  man  was  dead  when  he 
left  him  an’  took  his  outfit  an’  money,  an’  he  went 
to  town  and  got  drunk  an’  showed  off.  He  was  caught 
an’  died  from  absorbin’  too  much  lead  from  Rurales ’ 
rifles. 

"I’m  just  tellin’  you  this  so  you’ll  look  out  for  your 
mozo,  an’  do  all  the  gun-handlin’  yourself,  an’  sleep 
with  one  eye  open  nights,  for  they  ’re  all  mighty  handy 
with  knives.” 

At  length  the  mozo  said  all  was  ready.  I shook 
hands  with  my  comforting  friends,  and,  amid  many 
wishes  that  “nothin’  would  happen”  to  me,  mounted, 
and  rode  away.  It  was  a beautiful,  balmy  day  with 
an  atmosphere  as  clear  as  crystal.  My  heart  beat 
high  with  the  expectation  of  adventure  and  the  joy 
of  life,  as  we  rode  out  of  the  cluttered  town  and  turned 
toward  the  distant  mountains,  rising  before  us  in 
majestic  grandeur,  their  lofty  blue  peaks  cut  in  sharp 
silhouette  against  the  lighter  blue  of  a perfect  sky. 


CHAPTER  XXII 


INTO  THE  FOOTHILLS 

MY  mozo’s  name  was  Barragan,  though  I called 
him  Wilkinson  for  short.  “Wilkinson”  was 
easier  to  remember  than  “Barragan”  and 
not  nearly  so  hard  to  pronounce;  and  besides,  it  was 
the  only  word  with  an  English  sound  that  I was  ever 
able  to  make  him  comprehend.  I tried  it  on  him  two 
or  three  times,  and  after  that  he  accepted  it  and 
answered  to  it.  I used  other  English  words  in  address- 
ing him,  on  occasion,  but  he  did  not  understand  them. 
It  was  just  as  well  he  did  not,  for  sometimes  my 
remarks  might  have  disturbed  his  equanimity  of 
temper. 

Our  saddle  mules  were  excellent  young  animals. 
My  own  I dubbed  Bucephalus,  though  her  sex  did  not 
warrant  it,  neither  did  her  action.  She  was  a very 
meek  and  well-behaved  animal,  though  she  sometimes 
had  ideas  of  her  own  that  did  not  coincide  with  mine. 
For  instance,  when  we  forded  a stream  it  nearly 
always  occurred  to  her  that  it  would  be  a delightful 
sensation  to  lie  down  in  the  water,  and  on  these  occa- 
sions I had  to  bring  strong  arguments  to  bear  before 
I could  convince  her  that  bathing  with  a rider  would 
be  detrimental  to  her  health.  Occasionally,  too,  when 
we  halted,  she  conceived  the  idea  that  it  would  be  nice 
to  roll  with  me  on  her  back,  and  several  times  she 
dropped  to  her  knees  with  that  not  very  laudable 
object  in  view,  before  I could  persuade  her  that  it 

196 


INTO  THE  FOOTHILLS 


197 


was  not  good  form.  Then  she  always  assumed  an 
injured  air,  and  for  half  an  hour  would  not  be  very 
cheerful.  But  on  the  whole,  Bucephalus  was  a good 
mule  and  I became  attached  to  her. 

Our  pack  mule  was  a self-centred  individual,  with 
but  one  eye  and  a halt  in  one  shoulder.  I called  her 
Maud.  She  was  a veteran  of  many  trails,  and  knew 
what  she  wanted  and  what  she  did  not  want.  One 
thing  she  did  not  want  was  to  go  on  that  trip.  She  was 
very  docile  and  nice  until  we  reached  the  outskirts 
of  Culiacan.  Then  it  dawned  upon  her  that  we  had 
destined  her  for  a long  journey  somewhere,  unless 
she  took  prompt  action  to  divert  us  from  our  inten- 
tion. Wilkinson,  tranquilly  smoking  a cigarette  and 
fanning  his  spurs  against  his  mule’s  side  to  keep  it  in 
motion,  was  jogging  along  ahead,  Maud  following,  with 
Bucephalus  and  myself  in  the  rear  enjoying  the  dis- 
tant prospect  of  the  mountains.  Maud  concluded 
that  it  was  an  opportune  moment  to  assert  her  dis- 
approval of  our  plans,  and  before  we  realized  her 
intention  she  turned  and  bolted  back  toward  Culiacan. 
We  cornered  her,  to  her  disgust,  after  a half-mile  run, 
and  then,  to  guard  against  a repetition  of  her  unseemly 
behavior,  one  end  of  a lariat  was  fastened  about  her 
neck,  the  other  end  to  Wilkinson’s  saddle  horn,  and 
for  a while  she  trotted  along  quite  meek  and  contrite. 

The  road  was  very  muddy,  and  we  were  compelled 
to  go  slowly  and  pick  our  way  to  avoid  quagmires. 
Pack  trains,  laden  with  produce  from  outlying  hacien- 
das, crawled  past  us  on  their  way  to  market.  One 
long  train  of  burros  and  mules,  laden  with  lumber 
from  the  foothills,  interested  me  particularly.  Each 
animal  carried  two  great  planks  of  white  mahogany, 


198  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


one  lashed  on  each  side,  giving  the  burros  the  appear- 
ance of  animated  sheds.  These  planks  must  have 
weighed  fully  a hundred  and  fifty  pounds  each.  As 
we  were  passing  them,  one  of  the  animals  fell  under 
its  excessive  load,  and  was  unable  to  rise  to  its  feet 
again  until  its  burden  was  removed.  The  planks  are 
cut  by  hand,  two  or  three  days’  journey  inland,  and 
packed  by  this  method  to  Culiacan,  whence  they  find 
their  way  to  the  manufacturer. 

We  rode  through  two  or  three  small  villages  during 
the  morning  and  early  afternoon,  but  they  were 
notable  only  for  their  squalor.  In  front  of  a hut  in 
one  of  these  villages,  a little  boy  and  girl  were  selling 
fruit.  The  girl  had  an  unusually  attractive  face,  with 
big  wondering  eyes,  that  looked  at  me  so  wistfully, 
and  I fancied  appealingly,  I was  impelled  to  rein  in 
my  mule  and  purchase  some  of  her  oranges.  Then 
I noticed  that  in  marked  contrast  to  the  average  peon 
child  she  was  scrupulously  clean  and  wore  shoes  and 
stockings.  After  I had  paid  them  for  the  oranges  I 
dropped  some  loose  centavos  into  the  hands  of  each 
of  the  little  ones,  and  the  look  of  pleasurable  surprise, 
the  bright  smile,  and  the  polite  “Mucha  gracias, 
sehor,”  rewarded  me  a hundred-fold. 

For  several  miles  beyond  Culiacan  the  land  is,  for 
the  most  part,  under  cultivation.  Fields  are  fenced 
by  barbed  wire  or  surrounded  by  hedges  of  organ 
cacti,  to  protect  the  crops  from  wandering  cattle. 
The  country  is  level,  reaching  back  with  a very  gentle 
and  almost  imperceptible  rise  toward  the  foothills 
of  the  distant  Sierras.  But  gradually,  as  we  drew 
away  from  Culiacan,  the  tilled  and  fenced  fields  grew 
fewer,  until  they  gave  place  finally  to  timber  and  wild 


Each  animal  carried  two  great  planks 


“ Mucha  gracias,  senor  ” 


INTO  THE  FOOTHILLS 


199 


pasture  land,  and  in  mid-afternoon  the  wide  and  well- 
beaten,  but  muddy,  trail  narrowed  down  to  a bridle- 
path, dry  and  hard.  This  was  a relief,  for  the  mud 
had  held  us  down  to  a pretty  slow  gait.  Now  with 
firm  ground,  and  no  quagmires  to  circumvent,  we  were 
enabled  to  proceed  at  a fast  trot  and  make  fairly 
good  time. 

Maud  objected  strenuously  to  increasing  her  speed, 
and  held  back  to  such  an  extent  that  I finally  signalled 
Wilkinson  the  suggestion  that  we  change  our  forma- 
tion. “ Signalled”  is  the  proper  word,  for  I used  that 
half  of  the  Spanish  language  expressed  with  the  hands. 
The  vocal  half  I had  not  mastered  sufficiently.  We 
ceased  hauling  Maud  along  by  the  lariat,  undid  it 
from  her  neck,  and  Wilkinson  took  his  position  behind 
her  with  his  quirt,  which  he  was  to  use  freely  upon 
her  hinder  extremities,  as  an  inducement  to  speed. 
Bucephalus  and  I took  the  lead.  This  we  did  with 
good  results,  and  a stiff  trot  was  attained. 

Occasionally  I glanced  back,  to  see  Wilkinson  work- 
ing his  spurs  on  his  own  mount,  and  the  quirt  on  Maud, 
regularly  and  persistently,  like  a well-lubricated  ma- 
chine, and  shouting  what  sounded  like  “Vamonos! 
Vamonos!  Anderle!”  — words  which  were  quite  unin- 
telligible to  me,  but  which  Maud  seemed  to  understand, 
for  she  had  a decidedly  pained  and  surprised  expression 
upon  her  countenance.  Our  new  method  of  procedure 
proved  so  successful  that  it  was  maintained  for  the 
rest  of  the  journey.  Though  Wilkinson  occasionally 
complained  of  a lame  arm  through  strenuous  exertions 
with  the  quirt,  he  was  quite  satisfied  with  it;  and  so 
was  I,  for  when  things  grew  monotonous  I had  only  to 
glance  behind  at  him  and  Maud  for  diversion. 


200  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


Shortly  after  dark  we  caught  the  distant  glimmer  of  a 
light  and  presently  drew  up  in  front  of  a hut,  or  rather 
shed,  where,  by  the  light  of  a pine  knot,  a young 
woman  was  grinding  corn  for  tortillas,  while  her 
husband  lounged  on  a rough  bench  and  smoked  ciga- 
rettes. Before  we  dismounted  Wilkinson  opened  nego- 
tiations with  the  man  for  the  entertainment  of  ourselves 
and  our  animals,  and  when  the  terms  were  finally 
settled  I paid  in  advance  the  amount  agreed  upon. 
This  advance  payment  was  probably  required  because 
we  were,  on  the  whole,  a pretty  rough  and  suspicious- 
looking  outfit. 

But  Wilkinson  was  an  adept  at  making  friends. 
His  suave  manners  and  well-poised  rhetoric  soon 
quieted  the  last  suspicion  of  the  most  reluctant  native. 
And  so  it  was  in  this  instance.  In  a short  while  after 
our  mules  were  unsaddled  and  unpacked,  and  turned 
into  a corral  to  feed,  and  we  ourselves  had  sat  down 
to  cultivate  the  acquaintance  of  our  host,  an  onlooker 
would  have  supposed  that  Wilkinson  and  he  were 
two  brothers,  just  met  after  a long  separation. 

When  our  coffee  was  made  over  their  fire,  the  man 
and  woman  both  protested  against  our  eating  cold 
provisions  from  our  bags,  and  the  woman  insisted 
upon  setting  before  us  hot  tortillas  and  frijoles,  the 
latter  very  gritty,  but  palatable.  Their  hospitality 
even  extended  to  their  beds.  I had  expected  to  sleep 
upon  the  ground,  but  when  I indicated  my  desire  to 
retire  two  canvas  cots  were  brought  forth  — I am 
sure  the  only  ones  the  pair  possessed  — and  Wilkinson 
made  my  bed  on  one,  with  my  saddle  bags  for  a pillow 
and  my  blanket  for  covering,  while  he  appropriated 
the  other  to  his  own  use.  Then  the  man  and  woman 


INTO  THE  FOOTHILLS 


201 


left  us  in  full  possession  of  their  home,  to  take  up  their 
quarters  in  a neighboring  hut,  whose  flickering  light 
we  could  see  through  the  trees  in  the  distance. 

Wilkinson  was  a good  mozo  and  exceedingly  careful 
of  my  comfort.  In  spite  of  my  indicated  desire  to  do 
such  services  for  myself,  he  always  persisted  in  making 
my  bed,  and  bringing  me  a drink  of  water  before  I lay 
down,  and  even  pulled  off  my  riding  boots  when  I 
stooped  to  remove  them.  When  I was  settled  in  my 
blankets  at  night,  he  would  get  my  cartridge  belt  and 
revolver,  and  place  them  within  reach  of  my  hand. 
It  was  my  custom  when  I entered  a native  hut  to  hang 
my  belt  and  gun  upon  a peg  to  show  my  hosts  that  I 
considered  them  my  friends,  and  had  no  fear  that  they 
would  do  me  harm;  but  Wilkinson,  in  spite  of  his 
brotherly  attitude  toward  all,  in  reality  trusted  no 
one  that  he  did  not  know,  and  took  no  chance  with 
treachery. 

The  air  was  cool  and  exhilarating,  the  night  was 
calm,  and  the  stars,  in  the  clear  subtropical  sky,  shone 
exceedingly  bright  — one  of  those  peaceful,  delicious 
nights  that  bring  with  them  the  joy  of  life,  and  that 
inexplicable  charm  and  fascination  peculiar  to  the 
wilderness.  Our  beds  were  spread  under  a thatched 
roof,  supported  by  four  posts.  Beneath  was  Mother 
Earth  and  there  were  no  walls  to  shut  from  us  the  great 
free  out-of-doors.  A sense  of  perfect  contentment 
and  freedom  possessed  my  soul  as  I settled  to  rest, 
and  I was  thankful  that,  for  a time  at  least,  I had 
escaped  from  the  four  prison  walls  of  a hotel  chamber. 

I was  sinking  into  a blissful  unconsciousness,  when 
suddenly  I was  lifted  several  inches  bodily  and  dropped 
with  a thud.  Then  a familiar  grunt,  and  some  lesser 


202  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


squeals,  advised  me  that  an  old  sow  and  her  pigs  were 
taking  up  their  quarters  beneath  my  cot.  The  sow 
had  stood  up  directly  under  me,  lifted  me  upon  her 
back,  and  when  she  settled  again  dropped  me,  the 
slack  of  the  canvas  saving  me  from  rolling  out  of  bed. 
Wilkinson  heard  her  too,  and  immediately  gave  her  a 
whack  with  a stick  that  sent  her  away  with  complain- 
ing squeals.  But  she  was  a persistent  brute,  and  re- 
turned again  and  again,  to  be  driven  away  each  time 
by  the  faithful  mozo,  who  varied  his  whacks  with 
hisses  and  a monotonous  flow  of  Spanish,  which  I 
judged  by  the  intonation  consisted  of  choice  phrases 
not  adapted  to  polite  society.  I do  not  know  how 
long  the  contest  lasted,  for  I finally  dropped  asleep 
before  the  sow  had  decided  that  the  shelter  of  my  bed 
was  not  a proper  place  to  herd  her  brood. 

It  was  still  starlight  when  we  arose  and  saddled  up, 
and  day  was  just  breaking  when  we  hit  the  trail,  with- 
out waiting  for  breakfast,  which  Wilkinson  indicated 
to  me  we  should  eat  farther  on. 

A heavy  fog  lay  around  us  and  moisture  dripped 
from  everything.  It  was  chilly,  too,  and  I was  glad 
to  get  started.  But  soon  the  sun  arose  and  lifted  the 
fog  like  the  raising  of  a curtain  on  a stage,  and  dis- 
closed a world  of  beauty.  Trees,  shrubs,  and  grass, 
wet  with  dew,  glistened  as  though  encased  in  polished 
silver.  Wild  flowers  bloomed  along  our  trail  amid 
cacti  and  other  more  or  less  unfamiliar  vegetation, 
and  with  the  waking  day  the  birds  burst  into  song. 

The  country  was  growing  rougher.  We  were  in  the 
first  foothills  of  the  mountains  now,  and  our  trail  rose 
and  fell  over  hills  and  into  valleys.  After  a two  hours’ 
ride  we  came  upon  another  hut,  where  an  old  woman 


INTO  THE  FOOTHILLS 


203 


resided  who  seemed  to  be  a friend  of  Wilkinson’s. 
We  dismounted  here  and  made  our  coffee  over  her 
fire,  and  when  we  sat  down  to  eat  our  canned  meat 
and  store  biscuits,  she  set  before  us  a dish  of  tortillas 
and  native  cheese. 

We  did  not  halt  again  until  evening,  when  we  rode 
into  a small  village  of  adobe  huts,  the  centre  of  a 
hacienda,  and  secured  entertainment  in  one  of  them. 
The  place  was  like  a cellar  and  void  of  every  means 
of  comfort.  The  night  was  one  of  the  most  miserable 
of  the  trip.  My  bed  was  the  abode  of  innumerable 
parasites  that  fed  upon  my  flesh,  men  and  women 
shouted  and  talked  in  an  adjoining  apartment,  and 
gaunt,  swarthy,  bedraggled,  unkempt  women,  with 
matted  hair  hanging  down  their  backs  and  carrying 
smoky,  flickering  torches  above  their  heads,  flitted 
back  and  forth  through  my  room  like  evil  spirits. 

Once,  long  after  midnight,  after  a degree  of  quiet 
had  settled  upon  the  place,  some  one  was  seized  with 
a violent  fit  of  coughing,  then  another  and  another, 
until  it  seemed  as  though  the  whole  numerous  house- 
hold were  afflicted.  It  gave  me  a vague  feeling  that 
I was  in  a pest-house  of  some  kind,  but  it  was  only 
whooping-cough  perhaps.  A young  mining  engineer 
told  me  that  he  once  spent  a night  in  one  of  these  huts 
where  a member  of  the  family  was  ill.  He  did  not 
inquire  into  the  nature  of  the  sickness  until  morning, 
and  then  discovered  it  to  be  smallpox.  In  due  time 
my  friend  was  brought  down  with  the  dreadful  disease, 
and  barely  came  out  of  it  with  his  life. 

Our  trail  from  the  adobe  village  carried  us  into 
steeper  hills,  and  we  had  some  bits  of  rough  climbing. 
During  the  day  we  passed  the  first  mining  prospects, 


204  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


but  no  one  appeared  to  be  working  them,  and  we  did 
not  halt.  The  earth  here  was  of  a light  red-brick 
color,  and  a good  deal  of  the  soil  was  rough  and  barren, 
save  in  the  valleys,  which  were  watered  by  mountain 
streams. 

At  twelve  o’clock  we  rode  into  the  mining  village 
of  Chacala,  just  as  the  first  big  drops  of  a threatened 
rain  began  to  fall.  Here  we  were  to  put  up  for  the 
day.  We  were  now  at  the  very  base  of  the  great 
Sierras.  Above  us  they  raised  the  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  feet  of  sheer  and  mighty  wall  that  we 
were  to  scale. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


UNDER  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  SIERRAS 

S the  name  indicates,  Chacala  is  of  Indian 


origin,  and  its  battered  appearance  bears  out 


its  claim  to  venerable  age.  Down  through 
the  centre  of  the  town  runs  one  long  street,  with 
one-story  houses  of  adobe  and  brick  massed  solidly 
together  on  either  side.  The  tiled  roofs  of  those  on 
the  north,  supported  by  a row  of  pillars  reaching  the 
length  of  the  street,  extend  over  the  wide  sidewalk  of 
well-worn  brick.  There  are  other  streets  reaching 
out  from  a small  central  plaza,  but  they  are  narrow 
and  crooked  and  scarcely  more  than  alleyways. 

The  place  has  a romantic  situation,  under  the  shadow 
of  the  towering  peaks  of  the  Sierra  Madres.  A small 
but  turbulent  river  flows  out  of  a canyon  and  through 
a deep  gulch,  to  the  north  of  the  village.  High  and 
rugged  hills  and  mighty  mountains  rise  everywhere, 
their  steep  sides  here  and  there  dotted  with  fields  of 
ripening  corn  or  green  patches  of  maguey,  the  latter 
supplying  the  thirsty  inhabitants  with  fiery  mescal. 

While  Wilkinson  arranged  for  our  entertainment,  I 
bent  my  energies  to  discovering  some  one  who  could 
speak  English,  and  finally  was  directed  to  a hut  on 
one  of  the  side  streets.  Here  I was  met  by  a jovial 
Mexican  with, 

“How  do  you  do,  sir?” 

He  shook  my  hand  cordially,  and  even  before  I had 
time  to  introduce  myself,  called  directions  in  Spanish 


205 


206  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


to  some  one  within  to  set  the  table  for  two,  as  he  had 
a friend  to  dine  with  him. 

“It  is  just  dinner  time,  sir,  and  you  will  keep  me 
company.  You  are  a stranger  — I know  before  you 
tell  me  — and  an  American  — I know  that,  too  — 
and  I am  glad  to  see  you.  All  Americans  are  my 
friends.’’ 

I thanked  him  heartily  for  his  hospitable  greeting, 
which  was  so  unusual  that  I wondered  if  he  had  a 
mine  to  sell,  or  some  confidence  game  to  work,  but 
I was  soon  assured  of  his  sincerity.  I presented  my 
card,  and  explained  the  object  of  my  journey. 

“And  you  are  from  New  York!  Great  old  New 
York!”  exclaimed  my  loquacious  and  genial  friend. 
“It  is  adorable!  I have  been  there  much.  I was  for 
one  year  a student  at  Cornell  University,  but  I loved 
the  ladies  too  much,  amd  my  studies  too  little.  Ah, 
the  American  ladies  with  their  lovely  complexion!  I 
was  what  they  call  conditioned  for  one  year,  and  then 
I failed  in  all  the  subjects  at  the  end.  The  good 
faculty  told  me  that  I was  not  destined  for  a scholar. 
My  walk  in  life  should  be  in  other  fields.  But  I had  a 
great  time  that  one  year!  If  I am  dull  you  must 
excuse  me.  We  had  a dance  last  night,  and  I got 
very  drunk.  To-day  is  'the  day  after.’” 

Dinner  was  announced,  and  as  we  sat  down  I 
assured  him  he  was  not  dull  in  the  least;  that  I was 
very  much  entertained,  in  fact  charmed,  with  his 
conversation.  “I  am  sure,”  said  I,  “that  you  have 
had  many  interesting  experiences,  and  I should  be 
glad  to  hear  more  of  them.  Have  you  been  to  the 
United  States  recently?” 

“No,  not  for  three  or  four  years.  My  father  has 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  SIERRAS 


207 


mines  and  land,  and  I am  engaged  in  looking  after 
them.  He  had  me  learn  English  so  I could  do  it 
better.  He  confides  much  in  me,  which  is  proper. 
When  I was  a young  lad  he  sent  me  to  San  Fran- 
cisco, to  stop  with  friends,  and  go  to  school,  that  I 
might  learn  well  the  language.  I had  some  good 
Mexican  friends  there,  and  together  we  had  a fine 
time.  But  I did  not  bother  to  study  English,  for  it 
was  hard  to  learn,  and  I kept  only  with  those  of  my 
own  tongue.  There  I stayed  for  two  years,  when  my 
father  wrote  me  to  come  home.  In  those  two  years, 
he  thought,  I must  have  learned  English  well.  When 
I came  back,  he  asked  me  how  I did  with  English. 
I told  him  I could  speak  it  as  well  as  Spanish,  and 
he  was  proud. 

“But  one  day  he  said  to  me,  ‘I  have  to  go  to  San 
Francisco  on  business,  and  you  I will  take  to  interpret.’ 
I told  him  yes,  I would  like  that.  But  I felt  some 
worry,  for  my  old  man  — I believe  that  is  what  they 
call  the  father  in  the  States  — has  a good  temper.  I 
feared  at  what  he  might  do  when  he  learned  I knew 
no  English.  While  we  were  yet  on  the  ship,  he  called 
me  one  day  to  interpret  for  him,  but  I could  not 
interpret  a word,  and  he  was  angry.  He  was  properly 
very  angry.  Then  he  sent  me  to  a school  in  New  York 
where  there  were  no  Mexicans  nor  Spaniards  for  me 
to  talk  with,  and  I had  to  learn  English.  For  many 
years  he  kept  me  there,  until  I could  prepare  for  Cornell. 
Oh,  New  York!  It  is  adorable!” 

We  chatted  for  two  hours,  and  he  informed  me  that 
the  mining  operations  had  pretty  much  all  come  to 
a standstill  through  the  financial  depression  in  the 
United  States;  for  Mexico  was  largely  dependent 


208  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


upon  the  United  States  for  an  outlet  for  mine  products, 
and  many  of  the  largest  and  best  mines  were  controlled 
by  American  capital.  “But  Mexico,”  said  he,  “will 
not  suffer  much.  It  is  the  greatest  mineral  country 
in  the  world.  Right  here  around  Chacala  there  is 
lots  of  silver,  and  perhaps  gold,  too,  that  has  never 
been  found.  In  fact  the  prospectors  are  only  beginning 
to  look  for  it.  You  can’t  wash  a pan  of  dirt  in  any 
of  the  canyon  streams  hereabouts  without  finding 
color.  The  mountains  are  loaded  with  it.” 

Before  we  parted  he  gave  me  some  points  on  my 
route  over  the  mountains,  and  reiterated  the  advice 
given  me  by  the  miners  in  Culiacan,  to  keep  my  gun 
handy. 

“My  experience,”  said  I,  “is  that  it  might  as  well 
be  a wooden  gun.  Every  one  I have  met  has  been 
very  polite,  and  peaceably  inclined.” 

“That  is  not  a safe  thing  to  think  here,”  he  cau- 
tioned. “Some  you  have  met  would  shoot  you  if 
they  had  a chance,  but  they  fear  an  American  with 
a gun.  I always  carry  a six-shooter  and  keep  it  in 
sight.  I learned  to  shoot  well  in  the  United  States, 
and  I can  make  a target  at  two  hundred  yards.  It 
has  saved  my  life  more  than  once.” 

As  I took  my  leave  he  pressed  upon  me  a cordial 
invitation  to  visit  him  at  his  home,  but  unfortunately 
time  did  not  permit  me  to  do  so. 

A cold,  drizzling  rain  had  set  in,  and  a mist  had 
settled  over  the  valley.  Out  on  the  main  street  I 
found  Wilkinson  sitting  in  front  of  a meat  shop,  and 
learned  that  this  was  where  we  were  to  spend  the 
night.  Wilkinson,  with  his  accustomed  celerity,  had 
in  short  interval  made  a bosom  friend  of  our  host. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  SIERRAS 


209 


He  introduced  me  with  a Chesterfieldian  bow  as 
“Senor  Wayas,”  and  evidently  eulogized  me,  for  I was 
all  but  embraced  by  the  susceptible  butcher  and  his 
wife,  and  admitted  like  an  old  and  tried  friend  to  the 
charmed  circle.  My  command  of  Spanish  was  so 
limited,  however,  that  I could  not  take  an  active  part 
in  their  spirited  conversation,  and  I soon  excused 
myself  to  walk  out  to  a silver  mine  on  a bluff,  a mile 
or  so  from  town. 

The  mine  was  closed,  save  the  pumping  station, 
and  there  was  not  much  to  see.  But  I found  an  Ameri- 
can foreman  in  charge,  and  from  him  I learned  that 
the  plant  was  owned  by  a United  States  corporation. 
It  had  been  opened  and  equipped  a year  or  so  before, 
and  had  a small  though  complete  outfit,  with  modern, 
up-to-date  machinery.  The  money  depression  at 
home  had  compelled  them  to  shut  down  a month  or 
two  before  my  visit,  with  no  prospect  of  immediate 
resumption.  The  foreman  told  me  there  were  some 
other  operations,  all  of  them  small  ones,  in  the  surround- 
ing foothills,  but  all  were  idle  like  this  one,  for  they 
were  in  the  hands  of  Americans  without  funds. 

“How,”  I asked,  “was  it  ever  possible  to  get  this 
heavy  machinery  in  here?” 

“It  all  came  in  sections,  and  was  set  up  here,”  he 
explained.  “The  sections  usually  weigh  not  over 
three  hundred  pounds  — a mule’s  load  — but  we  had 
a few  that  went  beyond  four  hundred,  and  one  or 
two  nearly  five  hundred.  Very  large,  powerful  mules 
were  selected  to  carry  these,  and  even  then  the  ani- 
mals were  ruined.” 

“Is  it  all  American  machinery?” 

“All  of  ours  is,  but  some  of  the  mines  are  compelled 


210  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


to  use  German  machinery,  because  the  Germans  make 
theirs  in  smaller  sections,  and  it ’s  easier  to  transport 
on  mule-back,  though  it  is  not  so  good.  It ’s  just  a 
matter  of  necessity  when  it ’s  used.  American  manu- 
facturers can’t  seem  to  understand  that  it  is  neces- 
sary to  make  their  machines  so  they  can  be  knocked 
down  to  three-hundred-pound  parcels.” 

This  criticism  of  the  foreman  as  to  machinery,  I 
may  say,  I had  heard  in  other  quarters  as  to  general 
merchandise.  The  Mexican  merchant  orders  goods 
packed  in  packages  of  one  hundred  fifty  pounds,  that 
one  package  may  be  lashed  on  either  side  of  a mule 
for  transportation.  The  American  insists  in  packing 
in  his  own  way,  which  is  usually  in  large  cases  of  four 
or  five  hundred  pounds,  and  this  necessitates  repack- 
ing and  rehandling  in  Mexico.  The  Germans,  English, 
and  French,  on  the  other  hand,  comply  strictly  with 
the  purchaser’s  directions  in  this  respect,  and  capture, 
therefore,  a good  deal  of  trade  that  normally  belongs 
to  the  United  States,  and  that  the  United  States 
would  get  with  proper  packing,  for  freight  rates  from 
American  points  are  cheaper  than  from  Europe,  and 
American  goods  are,  in  general,  preferred. 

The  drizzle  had  turned  into  a steady  downpour 
before  I reached  my  quarters,  and  it  precluded  further 
explorations.  My  butcher  host  bent  himself  to  my 
entertainment.  He  sent  his  wife  to  a neighboring 
house  to  bring  a new  baby  which,  when  it  appeared, 
was  very  dirty  and  red-faced  and  made  a great  deal 
of  noise  with  a pair  of  healthy  lungs,  and  looked 
exactly  like  all  other  babies.  They  seemed  to  think, 
however,  it  possessed  some  superior  qualities,  for  it 
was  a relative’s  child.  I did  not  offer  to  hold  it,  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  SIERRAS 


211 


made  no  advances  toward  kissing  it,  though  Wilkin- 
son did;  but  just  to  show  my  appreciation,  I chucked 
it  under  the  chin  with  one  finger,  a proceeding  that  it 
seemed  to  appreciate,  for  it  stopped  squalling  immedi- 
ately, and  just  stared.  This  remarkable  display  of 
intelligence  on  the  youngster’s  part,  and  interest  on 
mine,  pleased  the  older  ones  greatly.  They  laughed, 
and  patted  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  were  generally 
idiotic  in  their  actions  over  the  baby.  My  notice  of 
the  child  proved  a good  bit  of  diplomacy,  for  it  won 
for  me  an  excellent  piece  of  beef,  broiled  over  the  coals, 
for  supper,  with  other  unwonted  delicacies. 

Our  butcher’s  business  establishment  consisted  of 
a rack,  on  the  sidewalk,  upon  which  hung  scraps  of 
meat  to  tempt  the  good  people  of  Chacala.  His  home 
consisted  of  a narrow  enclosed  passageway  leading  to 
the  rear,  and  one  room  that  answered  for  kitchen 
and  general  living-room,  though  he  and  his  wife  spent 
their  waking  hours  upon  the  sidewalk,  where  he  served 
his  customers,  and  she  sewed  and  gossiped  with  her 
neighbors,  and  kept  him  company.  At  night  the 
meat  rack  was  carried  into  the  passageway,  and  the 
street  door  locked  and  barred  against  intruders,  while 
the  good  couple  retired  to  the  kitchen. 

I had  my  choice  of  places  in  which  to  sleep,  but 
rather  than  deprive  them  I took  a corner  under  the 
patio  porch  roof  in  the  rear.  Here  a cot  was  brought 
and  placed  where  not  a great  deal  of  the  pouring  rain 
could  reach  me,  and  Wilkinson  made  my  bed  upon  it. 
Wilkinson  himself  rolled  in  his  blankets  on  the  floor 
beneath  the  meat  rack,  where  we  had  also  stored  our 
saddles  and  baggage;  but  it  was  a cellar-like  place  and 
I preferred  the  open,  even  with  a little  wet  thrown  in. 


212  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


Chacala  has  an  altitude  of  thirteen  hundred  feet, 
and  there  was  a marked  difference  between  the  tem- 
perature here  and  in  Culiacan.  In  fact  it  grew  so 
uncomfortably  cold  in  the  night  that  I arose  and 
donned  woollen  underwear,  which  I was  profoundly 
grateful  to  have  brought. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


THE  THRONE  OF  THE  GODS 


HE  eastern  sky  was  just  taking  its  first  purple 


coloring  from  the  still  invisible  sun  as  we 


mounted  and  rode  out  of  Chacala.  The  wet 
earth  gave  forth  its  fragrance  to  the  cool  morning  air; 
the  rain  had  washed  the  foliage  clean  of  its  coating  of 
brick-red  dust,  and  transformed  it  into  brilliant  green ; 
the  birds  sang  a proclamation  of  joy  and  freedom  to 
all  the  world.  I drank  the  clear,  pure  atmosphere 
into  my  lungs  in  great  draughts,  until  it  intoxicated 
and  exhilarated  me  to  the  point  where  I shouted  with 
the  mere  delight  of  life.  I would  have  sung  had 
I not  feared  the  consequences  on  Wilkinson,  and  a 
probable  stampede  of  Maud.  But  even  they  seemed 
to  share  with  me  the  spirit  of  the  morning,  and  for 
the  first  time  Maud  trotted  along  submissively  and 
freely,  to  Wilkinson’s  evident  satisfaction. 

Outside  the  town  our  trail  took  an  abrupt  turn  to  the 
left,  and  rose  at  once  a thousand  feet  to  the  summit 
of  a ridge.  Here  we  halted  for  a moment  to  enjoy 
the  beauty  of  the  scenery.  The  first  golden  rays  of 
sunlight  were  now  glorifying  the  mountain  peaks  that 
lay  about  us  in  a confused  mass.  Below,  in  a hollow, 
Chacala  nestled  like  a toy  village,  while  along  its 
northern  edge  the  creek  wound  down  through  the 
gulch,  a silver  thread. 

We  followed  the  crest  of  the  ridge  for  a little  dis- 


213 


214  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


tance,  then  turned  into  a canyon  where  the  trail 
hung  upon  the  almost  perpendicular  face  of  the  wall 
for  a few  miles,  midway  between  heaven  and  earth, 
before  it  finally  dipped  to  the  bottom  with  a steep 
descent.  Here  it  branched,  and  Wilkinson,  for  a time, 
was  puzzled,  but  finally  decided  that  we  should  ascend 
the  rocky  bed  of  a stream  between  the  canyon  walls. 

It  was  rough  travelling.  I marvelled  at  the  ability 
of  the  mules  to  keep  their  footing  among  the  great 
bowlders  piled  thickly  along  our  way,  but  they  stepped 
from  rock  to  rock  setting  their  feet  firmly,  with  won- 
derful and  never  failing  precision.  Several  times  we 
had  to  stop  to  reconnoitre.  At  length,  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  canyon  from  where  we  had  entered  it,  we 
found  the  trail  where  it  took  to  the  earth  again  above 
the  creek  bed. 

Presently  the  ascent  was  begun  — the  great  ascent 
of  the  Sierras.  Thousands  of  feet  above  us  towered 
the  canyon  wall,  and  the  trail  took  its  very  face. 
To  the  right  a few  yards,  a sharp  turn  to  the  left, 
another  few  yards,  then  another  sharp  turn,  but 
always  rising,  the  narrow  path  zigzagged  like  a snake, 
up  — up  — up  — until  it  made  me  dizzy  to  look 
below  at  the  receding  and  diminishing  stream  that  we 
had  recently  left.  Maud’s  back  and  Wilkinson’s  head 
were  always  directly  under  my  feet.  At  one  point 
I believe  I could  have  leaped  a sheer  three  thousand 
feet  into  the  dark  depths  of  the  canyon  without  once 
touching  earth  in  the  descent. 

We  had  climbed  a full  five  thousand  feet  before  the 
trail  quit  its  windings  for  a gentler  ascent,  and  here 
we  halted  and  dismounted  to  view  the  world  — the 
little,  shrivelled  world  below.  We  stood  on  the  throne 


THE  THRONE  OF  THE  GODS 


215 


of  the  gods,  with  their  kingdom  at  our  feet.  We 
looked  down  upon  the  tops  of  mountains  that  in 
the  level  of  Chacala  had  towered  grandly  above  our 
heads.  The  high  foothills  had  shrunken  into  pigmy 
mounds.  The  verdant  plain  that  spread  beyond  them 
to  the  Pacific  was  a green  ribbon,  and  the  ocean  itself 
shimmered  in  the  white  sunlight,  a mighty  opal, 
mingling  its  colors  with  the  turquoise  sky,  where  they 
met  in  the  line  of  far  western  horizon.  Through  my 
binoculars  I could  descry  Culiacan,  a mere  speck  on 
the  green  ribbon,  but  no  moving  thing  was  to  be  seen 
anywhere. 

Upward  our  trail  led,  taking  easy  swings,  now 
around  obstructing  heights,  now  crossing  declivities 
with  descents  and  rises,  but  always  attaining  a higher 
level.  Sometimes  it  was  very  rough,  and  we  skirted 
the  brinks  of  dangerous  cliffs;  but  we  felt  no  fear, 
for  the  spirit  of  the  mountains  possessed  us. 

It  was  scarcely  noon  when  clouds  began  to  gather 
and  settle  ominously  about  us.  Then  rain  came,  and 
the  wind  rose  in  fitful  gusts  to  dash  it  into  our  faces. 
It  was  cold,  too. 

“Mucho  frio,  mucho  frio,”  Wilkinson  complained  as 
he  wound  a zerape  and  oil  skin  about  him,  and  I 
shivered  in  my  khaki  suit  and  rubber  poncho. 

We  did  not  halt  to  make  a fire  for  luncheon,  but 
contented  ourselves  with  cold  tortillas  and  canned 
dried  beef,  munching  as  we  rode.  It  became  a cheer- 
less ride,  for  we  were  denied  the  diversion  of  viewing 
some  of  the  grandest  scenery  in  the  world,  and  I felt 
a sort  of  resentment  against  the  persistent  low-hanging 
clouds  and  mist  that  obscured  our  view. 

Once  we  met  two  mounted  Mexicans,  swarthy 


216  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


fellows,  armed  to  the  teeth  with  rifles,  revolvers,  and 
knives.  They  looked  at  us  suspiciously  as  we  passed, 
but  answered  my  “Buenas  tardes”  civilly  enough,  and 
were  soon  lost  in  the  mist  and  rain. 

Finally,  when  we  had  climbed  to  an  elevation  of 
eight  thousand  feet,  the  clouds  lifted  for  a little  and 
we  could  see  that  all  about  us,  in  the  higher  peaks, 
snow  was  falling.  The  temperature  had  crawled  down 
to  forty  degrees,  and  when,  well  into  the  afternoon, 
we  rode  into  the  shelter  of  a pine  forest,  and  were 
comparatively  free  from  the  cutting  wind,  I was 
thankful.  Straight  and  tall  the  trees  stood,  ninety 
to  a hundred  feet  without  a limb,  and  underneath  was 
a carpet  of  needles  with  scarcely  any  undergrowth  or 
shrubbery. 

At  one  point  some  one  had  undertaken  a lumbering 
operation,  and  begun  the  building  of  a camp;  but  it 
had  long  been  abandoned,  and  now  lay  in  ruins.  It 
is  probable  that  practical  figuring  disclosed  the  fact 
that  the  cost  of  transporting  the  lumber  to  market 
from  this  inaccessible  wilderness  was  far  beyond  its 
market  value,  and  so  the  magnificent  primeval  forest, 
protected  by  nature  from  the  lumberman’s  ruthless 
axe,  was  permitted  to  stand. 

Night  came  suddenly.  With  hardly  a twilight 
introduction  darkness  fell,  as  though  the  great  light 
of  heaven  had  been  snuffed  out  by  an  invisible  hand. 
We  were  just  emerging  from  the  forest  into  a wide 
level  hollow,  like  a great  corral  set  amongst  the  moun- 
tain tops.  A brook  ran  beside  our  trail.  There  was 
good  feed  for  the  mules  here,  and  it  was  altogether  an 
ideal  place  to  camp.  I was  somewhat  in  advance, 
and  stopped  for  Wilkinson  to  overtake  me,  deter- 


Hedges  of  organ  cacti 


On  the  trail 


THE  THRONE  OF  THE  GODS 


217 


mined  to  pitch  my  tent  under  the  shadow  of  the 
pines,  when  I glimpsed  the  faint  flicker  of  a light  not 
far  ahead.  We  made  for  it  at  once. 

A little  way  and  the  outlines  of  a cabin  appeared 
— if  I may  dignify  the  miserable  shack  with  that  name. 
We  could  dimly  discern  a shed,  attached  to  a small 
log  habitation  in  the  rear.  Between  the  unchinked 
logs  and  open  gable  ends  of  the  latter  came  the  un- 
certain light  of  a fire.  We  could  see  that  it  would 
be  a disagreeable  place  in  which  to  spend  the  night, 
but  as  the  rain  was  pouring  down,  and  it  was  now 
so  dark  that  to  find  wood  for  our  fire,  even  though 
we  were  to  pitch  our  tent,  would  be  tedious  work,  we 
chose  the  poor  shelter  of  the  hut. 

Wilkinson  shouted  to  the  occupants,  and  in  a 
moment  the  door  opened  and  a woman  appeared,  her 
hand  raised  to  shade  her  eyes  as  she  endeavored  to 
penetrate  the  blackness  that  surrounded  us.  Pic- 
turesque and  weird  she  was  as  she  stood  framed  in  the 
doorway,  in  sharp  silhouette  against  the  interior  glow, 
her  tall,  gaunt  figure  leaning  forward,  a mass  of  tangled 
black  hair  half  hiding  her  Indian  features,  and  a 
frightened  child  clinging  to  her  skirts. 

“Who  are  you?”  she  asked  in  Spanish. 

“An  American  and  his  mozo.  We  are  your  friends 
and  we  crave  shelter  from  the  storm,”  answered 
Wilkinson. 

“You  are  welcome.” 

The  child  was  lifted  by  an  arm  and  swung  impa- 
tiently out  of  view,  the  woman  retreated,  and  the  door 
closed  sharply. 

We  dismounted,  unsaddled,  and  piled  our  things 
in  the  shed.  The  roof  was  leaky  and  the  earth  beneath 


218  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


muddy,  but  it  was  better  than  the  open.  The  mules 
were  turned  to  pasture,  and  then  we  entered  the  room. 

It  was  not  over  twelve  feet  square.  A small  fire 
burned  in  one  end,  in  an  improvised  fireplace  built  of 
loose  stones.  There  was  no  chimney,  and  the  place 
was  partially  filled  with  smoke,  though  the  open 
gables  and  wide-spaced  logs  offered  small  impediment 
to  its  escape.  The  woman  was  baking  tortillas  for 
supper,  and  four  small  children  huddled  and  shivered 
around  the  fire.  The  oldest  child  was  not  over  six 
years  of  age,  the  youngest  perhaps  one  — three  girls 
and  a boy.  Each  was  clad  in  no  other  garment  than 
a ragged  calico  frock.  Neither  the  woman  nor  the 
children  wore  shoes,  stockings,  or  even  sandals.  The 
only  furniture  was  a hewn  log,  raised  somewhat  above 
the  earthen  floor,  at  the  back  of  the  room,  and  sup- 
ported by  stones.  There  was  neither  chair  nor  table, 
nor  other  convenience  of  civilization.  Everything, 
including  the  people,  reeked  in  filth.  As  the  woman 
slapped  tortillas  into  form  I could  see,  by  the  firelight, 
encrusted  soil  on  the  backs  of  her  hands.  The  tor- 
tillas had  cleansed  the  palms. 

I had  hardly  completed  my  observations  when  the 
door  opened  and  a man  appeared  — a great  unkempt 
fellow,  dripping  wet.  He  was  much  larger  than  the 
average  Mexican  Indian,  and  coarser  of  feature. 
His  thin  cotton  shirt  and  trousers,  soaked  with  the 
rain,  clung  close  to  his  body  and  set  off  his  powerful 
frame.  Below  the  knees  his  legs  were  bare,  and  on 
his  feet  were  sandals. 

The  only  notice  he  gave  us  was  a grunt,  probably 
intended  for  a greeting,  as  he  shook  the  water  from  a 
shabby  straw  sombrero.  Then,  squatting  upon  his 


THE  THRONE  OF  THE  GODS 


219 


haunches,  he  called  the  boy  to  him,  and  after  tenderly 
kissing  the  child  produced  some  handfuls  of  nuts  from 
the  depths  of  his  pockets.  They  were  apparently 
a great  treat  to  the  little  ones,  who  made  exclamations 
of  delight,  and  their  features  glowed  with  pleasure 
as  they  crowded  around  the  father. 

It  was  plain  that  the  boy  was  the  favorite.  It  is 
the  way  of  the  Indian  everywhere.  The  little  girls 
were  pushed  rudely  back,  until  a division  was  made 
of  the  nuts,  half  for  the  boy,  the  other  half  to  be 
apportioned  among  the  three  girls.  This  seemed 
to  be  the  accepted  thing,  for  there  was  no  murmur 
of  protest  from  any  of  them,  but  rather,  an  overflow 
of  appreciation  for  what  they  received.  Poor  little 
youngsters,  going  in  ecstasies  over  a few  paltry  nuts! 
Half  starved,  their  nakedness  hardly  covered,  sleep- 
ing at  night  upon  the  bare  ground,  huddled  around 
a meagre  fire,  never  a blanket  or  covering,  with  a 
temperature  in  this  high  altitude  hovering  close  to 
freezing-point,  and  with  nothing  else  to  look  forward 
to  in  life,  knowing  nothing  else,  they  are  indeed  not 
far  removed  from  the  primordial. 

There  was  manifestly  no  room  for  Wilkinson  and 
me  within,  and  I had  no  desire  to  stay;  so  we  retired 
to  the  shed,  and  by  the  light  of  a fat  pine  knot  soon 
had  a cheerful  little  camp-fire  by  which  to  dry  and 
warm  our  chilled  selves,  and  in  a little  while  a sizzling 
pan  of  bacon  and  a pot  of  fragrant  coffee  set  all  the 
world  to  rights. 

After  we  had  eaten,  I had  Wilkinson  make  another 
pot  of  coffee  and  hand  it  indoors  with  some  canned 
meat.  Wilkinson  was  a tender-hearted  fellow,  and 
he  did  it  with  a will,  Those  within  were  making  a 


220  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 

cheerless  meal  of  dry  tortillas  and  water.  Our  little 
treat  was  an  event  in  their  lives,  for  which  the  man 
thanked  us  in  a few  rough  words,  and  the  children 
in  the  pleasure  that  their  faces  reflected.  They  had 
but  one  cup,  and  no  plate,  and  we  lent  them  ours, 
and  then  left  them  to  enjoy  their  meal  while  I smoked 
my  pipe  and  ruminated  upon  the  share  that  chance 
plays  in  casting  one’s  lot  in  life. 

The  rain  ceased  before  bedtime.  We  spread  our 
tent  upon  the  muddy  earth  near  the  fire  and  rolled 
into  our  blankets  upon  it.  Wilkinson  placed  my  six- 
shooter  between  us,  and  with  a feeling  of  blissful 
comfort  I fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XXV 


LOST  IN  THE  SNOW 


FLIGHT  sound  as  of  some  one  moving  about 


awoke  me.  I had  unconsciously  covered  my 


head  with  my  blanket  as  I slept,  and  I threw 
the  covering  aside.  I could  see  no  one.  A new  fire, 
however,  struggling  into  being  where  our  night  fire 
had  died,  told  me  that  Wilkinson  was  up.  There 
was  absolute  silence.  The  stars  shone  with  unusual 
brilliancy  — a million  gems  — so  close  I fancied  I 
could  almost  pluck  them  from  their  settings  in  the 
blue-black  heavens. 

I arose,  and  looking  to  the  north  saw  the  Great 
Dipper  and  Polaris,  just  above  the  horizon,  and  knew 
that  morning  was  near,  for  in  that  latitude  Polaris  is 
visible  only  in  the  morning.  In  the  starlight  I could 
discern  the  retreating  figure  of  a man  in  the  open  space 
that  surrounded  us,  the  dark  outline  of  forest  beyond. 
Wilkinson  was  looking  for  the  mules,  that  he  might 
bring  them  in  in  time  to  eat  their  corn  at  leisure 
before  we  saddled  up  at  daylight. 

The  morning  was  cold  and  crisp,  with  a tang  of 
frost  in  the  air.  I returned  to  the  fire,  threw  on  more 
wood,  and  by  the  light  searched  the  depths  of  my  camp 
bag  for  woollen  socks  and  a heavier  woollen  outer 
shirt.  I found  them,  but  to  my  chagrin  discovered 
that  I had  left  my  Pontiac  shirt  at  Culiacan.  Now  I 
needed  it,  for  before  the  day  was  ended  we  should 


221 


222  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


be  in  snow  at  the  top  of  the  world.  But  I was  glad 
of  the  instinct  that  had  led  me  to  bring  even  such 
warm  clothing  as  I had,  and  I slipped  into  it  with 
thankfulness. 

Wilkinson  had  thoughtfully  set  a kettle  of  water 
near.  I put  it  over  for  coffee,  and  then  sat  down  to 
wait.  The  water  boiled  and  I took  it  off,  — and  still 
no  Wilkinson.  An  hour  passed,  and  the  first  hint  of 
light  appeared  in  the  east.  Another  half-hour,  and 
broad  day  broke.  I began  to  be  concerned  at  the 
mozo’s  long  absence.  I walked  down  on  the  open, 
but  there  was  no  sign  of  mule  or  man.  It  was  sunrise 
when  at  length  I saw  them  coming  a mile  away. 

Wilkinson  was  plainly  in  bad  humor  when  he  rode 
up  with  Maud  and  Bucephalus  in  tow.  “Mucho  malo! 
Mucho  malo!”  he  exclaimed,  as  he  dismounted  and 
directed  an  angry  slap  at  innocent-looking  Maud.  It 
turned  out  that  she  had  led  the  others  far  away  and 
into  hiding  in  the  timber,  a proceeding  that  seemed 
nothing  short  of  contemptible  to  Wilkinson. 

The  sun  was  an  hour  old  when  we  finally  started. 
Higher  and  higher  we  climbed  until  the  snow  was 
reached.  Bucephalus  had  never  seen  snow  before, 
and  at  the  first  white  patch  she  balked.  She  would 
not  step  upon  it,  in  spite  of  my  active  spurs.  Finally, 
with  long  ears  held  forward,  every  nerve  alert,  she 
smelled  of  it,  touched  her  nose  to  it,  jerked  it  back  as 
though  stung,  tried  it  again,  grew  bold  and  gingerly 
put  a foot  upon  it,  and  we  were  off. 

Clouds  gathered  and  obscured  the-  sun,  a cutting 
wind  arose,  and  the  day  grew  raw  and  chill.  The 
snow-covered  trail  was  exceedingly  slippery,  and  at 
many  points  dangerous.  We  passed  around  rocky 


LOST  IN  THE  SNOW 


223 


walls  with  a perpendicular  drop  of  thousands  of  feet 
below  us.  Frequently  the  ascent  or  descent  was  over 
smooth  granite,  with  a path  not  much  more  than  a 
foot  in  width,  and  at  hair-raising  angles.  The  slightest 
misstep  or  stumble  meant  death  for  mule  and  rider. 

Often,  near  these  dangerous  points,  suggestive  cairns 
surmounted  by  crosses  told  the  story  of  tragedies. 
Above  one  particularly  hazardous  descent  I counted  a 
group  of  five  of  these  crosses,  indicating  that  there, 
probably  at  different  times,  five  riders  had  stumbled 
into  eternity  without  a moment’s  warning.  They 
recalled  to  me  the  advice  of  a prospector  in  Culiacan: 

“ Always  be  ready  to  slide  off  your  mule  on  the  upper 
side  when  you’re  ridin’  bad  trail,”  he  said,  “an’  if 
your  mule  stumbles,  slide  an’  get  a footin’  an’  let  him 
get  straight  if  he  can,  for  if  he  goes  over  the  brink  an’ 
tumbles  down  a couple  o’  thousand  feet  you  don’t 
want  t’  be  on  his  back  a-wingin’  your  way  t’  glory. 
I never  tried  it,  but  I opine  it  ain’t  pleasant,  an’  be- 
sides it  would  make  your  mozo  feel  plum  lonesome  t’ 
leave  him  behind  without  at  least  sayin’  ‘ adios  ’ to 
him. 

“Once  I was  ridin’  along  one  o’  them  trails  an’  I 
met  a feller  afoot.  He  had  on  spurs  an’  did  n’t  look 
like  a pedestrian. 

“‘Where’s  your  mule,  stranger?’”  I asks. 

“‘Down  there,’  says  he,  pointin’  into  th’  canyon. 

“‘Goin’  t’  look  him  up?’  I asks,  glancin’  down  t’ 
th’  bottom  which  was  so  deep  I could  n’t  see  it. 

“ ‘Nope,’  says  he.  ‘It ’s  a good  week’s  walk  around, 
an’  I reckon  what ’s  left  of  him  an’  my  trappin’s  ain’t 
worth  th’  trouble.’” 

All  around  us  mountain  peaks  rolled  away  in  the 


224  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


distance  like  the  mighty  billows  of  a storm-tossed 
sea.  Huge  crags,  of  fantastic  outline,  tall  pines  sur- 
mounting pinnacled  rocks,  silhouetted  against  banks 
of  ominous,  low-hanging  clouds,  mysterious  depths 
shrouded  in  the  darkness  of  night,  combined  to  form 
a scene  of  majestic,  awe-inspiring  grandeur.  How 
insignificant  we  puny  mortals  felt!  We  were  face  to 
face  with  God  and  His  immortal  works. 

We  wound  our  way  out  upon  a ridge  that  dropped 
down  into  a mighty  canyon  on  either  side.  At  the 
end,  where  the  canyons  came  together,  we  descended 
to  the  bottom  of  the  abyss,  and  on  the  farther  side 
rose  to  a still  higher  altitude,  when  to  my  great  relief 
we  entered  a comparatively  level  stretch  and  were 
soon  within  the  depths  of  a magnificent  pine  forest. 

Here  was  a complete  change  of  topography.  The 
ground  grew  gently  undulating,  the  tall,  straight  trees 
stood  thick  about  us,  and  every  vestige  of  rugged 
mountain  peak  and  crag  was  shut  from  view.  We 
had  reached  an  elevation  of  ninety-five  hundred  feet. 

Under  the  trees  was  spread  an  even  carpet  of  snow, 
which  covered  and  completely  hid  the  trail.  In 
blind  search  for  it  I rode  ahead  for  some  distance,  and 
then  halted  for  Wilkinson.  He  too  was  completely 
confused.  Nowhere  was  there  a mark  or  sign  to  indi- 
cate our  course.  Vainly  we  circled  amongst  the  trees 
for  some  depression  .in  the  snow,  or  token  to  guide 
us,  but  none  was  found. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  keep  an  easterly  direc- 
tion. We  jogged  along  in  a disturbed  state  of  mind 
for  several  miles,  when  we  came  upon  some  trees 
tapped  for  rosin.  Not  far  beyond  we  discovered  an 
improvised  lean-to,  which  had  sheltered  a man  during 


LOST  IN  THE  SNOW 


225 


the  previous  night,  and  the  still  smoking  embers  of 
a fire.  The  camper’s  tracks  led  away  in  the  direction 
we  were  taking.  They  were  the  tracks  of  a man  in 
sandals,  as  prints  of  bare  toes  in  the  snow  plainly 
indicated. 

For  two  hours  we  followed  the  trail,  then  suddenly 
broke  into  a clearing  in  the  centre  of  which  stood  a 
small  log  hut,  with  smoke  issuing  from  its  open  gables. 
As  we  approached,  a tall  young  Indian,  thinly  clad, 
with  bare  legs  and  sandalled  feet,  came  out  to  give 
us  a smiling  welcome.  He  was  quite  alone,  and 
invited  us  to  join  him  at  his  fire. 

The  invitation  was  accepted,  and  over  a kettle  of 
hot  coffee,  which  Wilkinson  brewed,  we  learned  that 
we  had  gone  many  miles  astray.  The  Indian  offered 
to  lead  us  by  a short-cut  to  a trail  that  would  take  us 
to  Canelas,  a mining  village  to  the  northeast,  at  which 
point  we  could  resume  the  regular  trail  direct  to 
Tepehuanes. 

The  short-cut  that  the  Indian  proposed  was  little 
used  save  by  footmen,  and  was  rough,  and  led  over 
some  high  elevations,  but  he  assured  us  our  animals 
would  find  no  difficulty  in  following  it,  and  it  would 
save  us  at  least  a day’s  travelling.  Sleet  and  snow 
were  falling  and  it  was  very  cold.  In  my  broken 
Spanish  I suggested  that  he  could  not  travel  in  the 
snow  with  only  sandals  on  his  feet,  but  he  laughed,  and 
explained  that  it  was  no  hardship.  He  had  never 
worn  anything  else. 

We  finally  accepted  the  Indian’s  offer,  and  he  led 
us  off  over  one  of  the  roughest  trails  it  has  ever  been 
my  fortune  to  travel.  Out  of  the  gently  rolling  coun- 
try we  passed,  — out  of  the  great  pines,  — skirted 


226  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


the  upper  wall  of  a magnificent  canyon,  and  then 
wound  up  and  up  around  a jagged  peak  until  we  had 
reached  an  altitude  of  eleven  thousand  feet.  From 
this  point  we  dropped  a thousand  feet  or  so,  came 
again  to  a more  level  stretch,  and  at  nightfall  halted 
in  front  of  a typical  mountain  hut,  a little  larger  than 
the  one  in  which  we  had  spent  the  previous  night, 
and  with  two  rooms,  but  otherwise  its  counterpart. 

The  hut  was  vacant,  and  we  took  possession.  The 
earthen  floor  was  partially  covered  with  snow,  which 
had  drifted  in  between  the  logs,  but  a rousing  fire  of 
pine  knots,  a pan  of  bacon  and  a pot  of  coffee,  a com- 
forting pipe,  and  then  a bed  of  fragrant  fir  boughs 
upon  which  to  recline  and  watch  the  glowing  coals, 
transformed  it  into  a palace  of  bliss,  to  be  remembered 
as  the  best  of  all  our  mountain  camps. 

In  the  morning  the  mules  stampeded.  Wilkinson 
succeeded  in  capturing  Bucephalus,  and  at  daybreak 
mounted  her  and  rode  off  to  trail  the  others  in  the 
snow.  Happily  he  found  them,  and  an  hour  and  a 
half  later  led  them  into  camp. 

The  temperature  had  dropped  below  freezing,  and 
a crust  had  formed  on  the  snow.  Our  smooth-shod 
mules  slipped  dangerously  on  the  rocks,  where  the 
snow  had  blown  away  and  left  a glaze  of  ice,  but  we 
met  with  no  mishap. 

All  day  we  were  surrounded  by  scenery  of  sublime 
grandeur.  Pinnacles  and  towers,  castles  and  mighty 
fortresses  of  granite,  canyons  deep  and  dark,  lay 
about  us.  At  one  point  a creek  fell  from  the  rocks 
above  to  be  lost  in  a cloud-mist  below,  whence  it  sent 
back  a thundering  roar  from  the  lower  depths.  Our 
trail  passed  between  wall  and  torrent,  midway  of  its 


LOST  IN  THE  SNOW 


227 


fall,  and  we  were  drenched  with  spray  as  we  made 
the  passage  under  it. 

Presently  we  began  to  descend.  At  seventy-eight 
hundred  feet  the  last  of  the  snow  was  seen.  Travelling 
improved  perceptibly,  and  the  temperature  became 
much  milder.  Wilkinson,  clad  in  two  suits  of  under- 
wear, three  flannel  shirts,  two  pairs  of  trousers,  and 
two  pairs  of  thick  socks,  had  been  shivering  and  com- 
plaining constantly  of  “mucho  frio.”  Now  he  melted 
into  geniality.  The  Indian,  trotting  ahead,  though 
half  naked  had  appeared  quite  impervious  to  the  cold. 
With  him  it  was  a matter  of  course,  for  he  was  a moun- 
tain man. 

In  a gentle  hollow  we  came  upon  some  mules  brows- 
ing, and  a little  farther  on  found  the  muleteers  gath- 
ered around  a camp-fire.  We  halted  for  a moment  to 
pass  the  time  of  day,  and  they  gave  us  some  native 
apples.  The  fruit  was  of  excellent  flavor,  though 
only  seedlings. 

Beyond  the  muleteers’  bivouac  we  met  a horseman 
armed  with  rifle  and  revolver,  and  on  foot,  at  his 
heels,  two  similarly  armed  men,  who  carried  their 
rifles  loose  on  their  arms,  as  though  ready  for  instant 
use.  They  were  swarthy,  ill-looking  fellows,  and  Wil- 
kinson became  instantly  nervous.  I glanced  behind 
me  and  saw  that  the  footmen  had  stopped  to  watch 
us.  At  the  first  bend  in  the  trail  Wilkinson  halted  and 
discharged  our  Indian  guide.  Almost  before  I could 
hand  the  fellow  some  silver,  and  thank  him  for  his 
service,  the  anxious  Wilkinson  was  urging  me  to 
“Vamanos!  vamanos!”  and  for  a little  while  we  travelled 
faster  than  at  any  time  since  leaving  Chacala,  but  still 
not  fast  enough  for  the  reckless  Wilkinson,  who  was 


228  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


manifestly  afraid  of  the  armed  men  in  the  rear.  We 
were  a pretty  rough-looking  outfit,  however,  and  if 
they  were  bent  upon  mischief  they  probably  did  not 
deem  us  worthy  their  attention.  Not  until  we  had 
met  and  passed  a pack  train  did  Wilkinson  settle 
again  into  his  usual  manner. 

We  were  now  on  the  Canelas  trail,  a regular  line  of 
travel  as  the  well-beaten  path  indicated.  In  a little 
while  we  began  to  drop  from  the  heights,  and  as  we 
swung  around  a point  beheld  the  red-tiled  roofs  and 
white  buildings  of  the  town  nestling  deep  in  a hollow 
below,  at  the  junction  of  two  canyons.  The  descent 
was  like  going  down  stairs,  and  with  every  step  the 
atmosphere  grew  mellower.  Finally  we  passed  green 
corn-fields,  guavas,  oranges,  and  lemons  hanging  yellow 
on  the  trees,  banana  fields,  and  gardens.  Wilkinson 
plucked  two  delicious  cherimoyas  from  a tree  and 
handed  one  to  me. 

An  hour  before  sunset  we  rode  into  the  narrow 
streets  of  the  picturesque  old  town.  We  were  not 
yet  over  the  divide,  and  a native  whom  we  met,  who 
could  speak  some  English,  told  me  that  as  the  trails 
beyond,  normally  bad,  were  now  buried  and  hidden 
by  the  snow,  it  would  be  foolhardy  to  proceed  until 
a day  or  two  of  sunshine  had  cleared  them.  No 
native,  he  said,  would  attempt  the  journey  with  the 
prevailing  conditions.  I decided,  therefore,  to  remain 
at  least  one  day  in  Canelas,  glad  of  the  opportunity 
to  give  the  mules  a rest,  for  they  were  quite  spent. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


AN  OLD  TOWN  AND  THE  MINES 

CANELAS  lies  in  a bowl-shaped  depression  at 
the  head  of  two  canyons.  The  name  means 
“corral,”  and  is  indicative  of  its  shut-in  posi- 
tion. At  no  point  is  the  base  of  the  bowl  more  than 
half  a mile  wide.  On  all  sides  the  mountains  rise 
almost  sheer,  their  jagged  peaks  piercing  the  blue 
heavens  a mile  overhead,  to  form  the  serrated  rim  of 
the  mighty  bowl.  Canelas  lies  on  the  Pacific  side  of 
the  Sierra  Madres,  and  at  an  elevation  of  forty-five 
hundred  feet  above  sea  level. 

Since  the  days  of  the  Spaniard  this  has  been  a 
mining  town.  The  better  buildings,  clustered  around 
the  plaza,  were  designed  by  the  conquerors,  not  only 
as  dwellings  but  as  fortifications  in  which  the  inhabi- 
tants might  find  a safe  retreat  from  the  then  hostile 
Indians  who  infested  the  mountain  fastnesses.  Many 
of  the  old  walls  of  solid  masonry  are  fully  four  feet 
thick,  and  besides  the  dooiways  have  no  other  open- 
ing than  occasional  narrow  slits  beneath  the  high 
ceiling,  which  served  in  other  days  as  loopholes. 
The  floors  are  of  stone  or  brick,  and  the  doors  of 
ponderous  oak  or  mahogany,  which  only  cannon  balls 
could  have  battered  down.  The  dungeon-like  rooms 
are  filled  with  the  damp  and  must  of  centuries. 

I saw  no  glass  windows  in  the  town,  save  those  in 
its  two  crumbling  churches.  One  of  these  churches 

229 


230  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


was  built  in  the  sixteenth  century,  the  other  is  doubt- 
less of  seventeenth-century  origin.  Now,  though 
both  are  open  at  all  times  to  individual  worshippers, 
only  occasionally  does  a padre  come  to  say  mass. 
Wild  flowers  and  rank  weeds  alike  run  riot  in  the 
churchyards,  and  within  the  churches  are  sombre  and 
smoky  walls  hung  with  grotesque  caricatures  of  saints. 

Wilkinson  and  I shared  a little  cell-like  room  open- 
ing upon  the  patio  of  one  of  the  old  Spanish  houses. 
It  had  no  window  or  even  loophole  to  admit  light 
and  air,  and  we  were  forced  to  sleep  with  an  open 
door  or  we  should  have  smothered.  The  place  was  as 
damp  and  dank  and  cheerless  as  a cellar. 

There  was  one  canvas  cot,  which  I appropriated, 
while  the  mozo  curled  in  his  blankets  on  the  stone 
floor.  Two  old  Spanish  women  presided  over  the 
establishment  with  a grace  and  courtesy  worthy  a 
mansion.  They  were  very  old  women  indeed,  and 
so  shrivelled  and  shrunken  that  I almost  fancied  them 
the  original  occupants  of  their  time-worn  home,  living 
on  and  on  through  the  centuries. 

Some  friends  of  Wilkinson’s  occupied  the  adjoining 
house,  and  there  we  were  served  our  meals.  They, 
too,  were  of  Spanish  origin,  and  most  hospitable. 
The  family  consisted  of  a widowed  mother,  a grown 
daughter,  and  an  alert,  handsome  boy  of  fifteen. 
They  were  very  poor,  but  far  superior  to  the  average 
peons  with  whom  I had  come  in  contact.  They  were 
proud,  too,  and  so  strenuously  declined  my  money 
in  payment  for  our  entertainment,  which  I urged 
upon  them  in  advance  in  view  of  their  very  evident 
need,  that  I had  finally  to  rely  upon  Wilkinson’s 
tact  and  rhetoric  to  induce  them  to  accept  it.  Their 


Guava  trees  in  a garden,  Canelas 


A street  in  Canelas 


AN  OLD  TOWN  AND  THE  MINES  231 


persons  and  their  home  were  scrupulously  clean,  and 
their  cooking,  though  typical  of  the  country,  was 
superior.  The  memory  of  their  cordial  reception, 
their  hospitality,  and  their  constant  courtesy  during 
our  two  days’  halt  in  Canelas  I shall  long  cherish  as 
one  of  the  pleasantest  of  my  Mexican  experiences. 

Silver  mining  is  still  carried  on  in  Canelas,  though 
at  the  time  of  my  visit  the  mines  were,  unfortunately, 
all  temporarily  closed.  On  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 
I visited  a native  ore  mill,  where,  with  its  ancient 
rastra  and  old-time  methods,  silver  is  extracted  from 
quartz  to-day  just  as  it  was  extracted  in  the  same  mill 
in  the  early  Spanish  days.  There  was  the  same 
ponderous  wheel  of  stone,  hauled  around  in  its  pit 
by  weary  mules  as  it  crushed  into  powder  the  metal- 
laden quartz,  and  there  was  the  same  charcoal  fur- 
nace where  the  silver  was  melted  and  run  into  bars. 

Down  within  the  canyon  below  the  town  is  a small 
modern  plant.  Two  thousand  feet  above  it,  on  the 
side  of  the  steep  mountain,  is  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel 
from  which  the  ore  for  this  mill  is  dug.  From  the 
tunnel  to  the  mill  there  is  a slide  down  which  the  ore 
shoots  by  its  own  momentum.  The  whole  country 
hereabouts  is  mineralized,  but  is  so  difficult  of  access 
that  as  yet  comparatively  little  advantage  has  been 
taken  of  it. 

The  extent  of  the  mineral  resources  of  the  western 
Sierras  is  almost  beyond  belief,  being  practically 
inexhaustible.  Everywhere  is  hidden  treasure.  Sina- 
loa alone  has,  for  instance,  an  area  of  nearly  thirty- 
five  thousand  square  miles,  and  three-fourths  of  the 
State  is  mineralized.  Silver  is  the  chief  metal,  though 
large  amounts  of  gold,  usually  found  in  pockets,  have 


232  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


made  more  than  one  miner  a millionaire.  I was  told 
of  a case  where  pocket  gold  paid  all  expenses  of  opera- 
ting a silver  mine,  and  left  the  silver  clear  profit.  In 
the  northern  part  of  the  State  there  are  also  well  pay- 
ing copper  mines,  and  some  lead  has  been  found. 

When  I was  in  Culiacan  an  American  prospector 
who  was  stopping  at  the  Hotel  Cosmopolita,  while 
riding  across  a corn-field  not  far  from  town  one  day, 
noticed  the  outcropping  of  a vein  of  quartz.  He 
uncovered  it  for  several  rods,  took  specimens  from 
various  points,  and  had  them  assayed.  They  were 
all  rich  in  silver.  He  had  made,  in  this  unexpected 
manner,  a lucky  “strike.” 

The  mines  of  Sinaloa  are  at  present  producing 
annually  14,000,000  pesos,  and  employ  8,000  foreigners 
and  natives.  The  most  important  of  these  are  the 
Tajo,  Panuco,  Candelaria,  Contra  Estace,  Guadaloupe 
de  los  Reyes,  Zapopan,  San  Antonis,  Butters  Mg.  Syn., 
Nima  Duendo,  San  Vicente,  Jesus  Maria,  and  La 
Piramida,  all  of  which  are  owned  by  Americans  or 
Mexicans.  There  are  also  some  four  hundred  and 
sixty  odd  workings  partially  developed  but  now  lying 
idle,  through  lack  of  sufficient  capital  to  install  the 
necessary  machinery  to  operate  them  profitably.  In 
spite  of  this  the  State  has  hardly  begun  to  be  scratched 
over,  and  prospectors  are  only  commencing  their  work. 

Inaccessibility,  with  lack  of  transportation  facili- 
ties, has  been  the  chief  drawback  to  successful  mining. 
Only  the  richest  deposits  can  be  worked  with  profit, 
owing  to  the  excessive  cost  of  freighting  the  ore  to 
smelters.  All  this  must  be  done  on  pack  mules,  and 
during  the  dry  season  the  cost  per  cargo  — 300  pounds 
— to  deliver  the  ore  at  Mazatlan  is  from  six  to  twelve 


AN  OLD  TOWN  AND  THE  MINES  233 


pesos,  and  in  the  wet  season  double  as  much.  Add 
to  this  the  freight  charges  by  steamer  to  the  smelter, 
the  expense  of  transporting  provisions  and  supplies 
to  the  mines,  together  with  the  cost  of  working,  and 
it  will  be  seen  that  none  but  exceedingly  rich  ore  can 
be  handled  at  a profit.  For  this  reason  hundreds  of 
mines  containing  medium  and  low  grade  ore,  which  in 
a more  accessible  position  would  be  highly  profitable, 
now  lie  idle. 

There  is  no  custom  smelter  within  several  hundred 
miles,  and  ore  must  be  sent  to  San  Francisco  or  Tacoma 
to  be  smelted.  However,  relief  is  looked  for  soon. 
A concession  has  been  granted  Mr.  Epps  Randolph,  of 
Tucson,  Arizona,  to  construct  a first-class  custom 
smelter  of  large  capacity  at  Mazatlan,  and  with  the 
railroad  opened  to  that  point  work  upon  the  smelter 
will  be  begun  and  pushed  rapidly  to  completion. 

It  is  expected  that  with  the  coming  of  the  railroad 
life  will  be  injected  into  mining  enterprises.  Already 
some  of  those  in  operation  are  planning  to  install 
complete  systems  of  cyanide  plants,  talk  is  heard  of 
small  mines,  long  dormant,  being  cleaned  out  and 
opened  up,  and  prospects  for  the  future  are  most 
encouraging. 

The  chief  causes  of  failure,  not  taking  into  considera- 
tion fraudulent  promoters,  are  either  inexperience  or 
lack  of  sufficient  capital  to  put  mines  upon  a profit- 
paying basis.  Many  men  with  little  or  no  practical 
knowledge  of  mining  come  here  and  attempt  to  con- 
duct a business  of  which  they  are  ignorant. 

A couple  of  years  ago  an  Englishman  travelling  in 
Mexico  obtained  control  of  a property  in  the  high 
Sierras.  He  went  home  to  London  and  induced  some 


234  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


of  his  wealthy  countrymen  to  join  him  in  the  enter- 
prise. They  advanced  the  necessary  cash,  while  he 
agreed  to  furnish  the  brains  and  experience,  though 
in  the  latter  he  was  wholly  lacking,  and  not  so  over- 
stocked with  the  former  that  you  would  notice  it.  In 
due  time  he  arrived  at  Mazatlan,  accompanied  by 
an  English  groom  in  livery.  The  English  groom  in 
livery  was  destined  to  groom  the  sportive  mule.  He 
was  quite  an  innovation.  The  Englishman  wore  a 
monocle,  which  was  also  an  innovation  in  those  parts. 

They  retired  — the  Englishman,  the  liveried  groom, 
and  the  monocle  — to  the  mountains,  taking  with 
them  a large  corps  of  native  laborers.  A lot  of  digging 
was  done,  and  the  time  came  to  take  out  the  produce 
to  be  shipped  to  the  smelters.  Then  it  was  found 
that  the  cost  of  transportation  was  more  than  the  ore 
was  worth.  They  had  not  thought  before  of  this 
little  item. 

The  Englishman  decided  at  this  critical  point  that 
they  needed  a tramway.  A tramway  would  do  it! 
With  a tramway  to  bring  the  ore  down  from  the  heights 
they  would  just  coin  sovereigns.  So  he  sent  to  Eng- 
land and  asked  the  confiding  investors  to  send  an 
engineer  to  build  the  tramway.  The  engineer  came, 
and  the  would-be  miner  ordered  him  to  build  the  tram- 
way— just  as  he  might  have  ordered  his  tailor  to 
make  him  a new  suit  of  clothes. 

While  I was  in  Mazatlan  I met  the  engineer.  He 
was  waiting  for  cable  instructions  to  return  home, 
and  he  poured  his  troubles  into  my  ears.  He  was  not 
in  good  humor,  and  he  had  not  built  the  tramway. 

“Now,  don’t  you  know,  it’s  not  a tramway  they 
need,  but  a blooming  flying  machine,”  he  explained. 


AN  OLD  TOWN  AND  THE  MINES  235 


“No  engineer  can  build  a tramway  on  those  grades, 
don’t  you  know?  It’s  like  going  up  the  side  of  a 
house,  and  the  mountain  is  so  blooming  high  you  can’t 
see  the  top  from  the  bottom.” 

This  is  a specimen  of  some  of  the  mining  operations 
undertaken  in  Mexico. 

Worked  with  intelligence  by  experienced  men,  and 
upon  sound  economic  business  principles,  most  of  the 
failures  would  have  proved  dividend-paying  invest- 
ments. Few  of  them  can  be  truthfully  ascribed  to 
non-paying  ore  veins. 

Many  Mexican  mine  failures  are  due  wholly  to  dis- 
honest promoters.  These  scamps  secure  a tract  of 
land,  dig  a hole,  and  erect  a few  flimsy  structures  all 
at  an  insignificant  cost,  and  then  draw  upon  our 
gentle  public  for  millions  of  dollars.  They  never 
work  the  mines  and  never  intend  to  do  so.  They  rely 
upon  the  fact  that  the  supposed  mine  is  far  enough 
removed  to  be  secure  from  any  general  investigation. 
Reports  of  the  promoter’s  own  engineers,  hired  to  do 
their  bidding,  are  given  out  as  reliable  and  trust- 
worthy, and  in  many  of  these  cases,  no  doubt,  the 
engineer  making  the  report  never  even  sees  the  prop- 
erty described. 

Mining  schemes  of  this  character  are  frauds  from 
their  inception.  Frequently  dividends  are  paid  for 
a year  or  so  from  moneys  received  for  stock,  for  the 
purpose,  of  course,  of  making  new  dupes.  The  notori- 
ous Dr.  Flower  belongs  to  this  class  of  operators. 
Recently  a combine  marketed  $25,000,000  worth  of 
stock,  at  par,  on  the  New  York  curb,  and  when  a 
receiver  was  appointed  to  take  control  of  the  company 
he  found  but  $1.48  in  bank. 


236  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


There  are  many  of  these  unstable  or  fraudulent 
mining  enterprises  being  floated  continually  in  New 
York,  Boston,  and  Chicago,  and  small  investors,  who 
are  not  able  personally  to  visit  and  inspect  the  prop- 
erties, or  engage  a thoroughly  reliable  and  experienced 
engineer  to  do  so  for  them,  should  communicate  wTith 
the  American  Consul  on  the  ground.  In  Sinaloa,  the 
Consul  at  Mazatlan  is  the  proper  authority  to  consult. 

Scattered  throughout  Mexico  are  many  old  aban- 
doned Spanish  mines,  some  of  them  worked  out  and 
many  of  them  abandoned  in  the  early  days  because 
of  the  inability  to  separate  metal  from  rock,  under 
certain  conditions,  with  the  crude  methods  then  in 
vogue.  Some  of  the  old  workings  contain  surprising 
rewards  to  the  industrious  and  patient  who  take 
them  up. 

A peon  once  staked  out  one  of  the  old  Spanish 
mines  as  a claim,  and  began  digging  in  the  old  tunnel, 
which  had  lain  idle  for  more  than  a century.  Month 
after  month  he  dug,  living  in  the  meantime  upon 
tortillas  supplied  him  by  his  neighbors,  who  believed 
him  crazy  and  good-naturedly  tolerated  him  in  his 
ever  present  belief  that  "to-morrow”  he  would  strike 
great  riches.  He  was  harmless  and  they  were  sorry 
for  him.  Finally,  however,  they  grew  tired  of  bestow- 
ing charity,  and  all  but  one  declined  to  contribute 
food.  They  advised  the  digger  to  stop  his  foolish- 
ness and  instead  of  wasting  his  strength  in  the  old 
tunnel  to  go  to  work  in  the  corn-field. 

The  one  man  who  shared  his  tortillas  with  the  miner 
was  very  poor,  and  his  bounty  was  hardly  sufficient 
to  sustain  life.  The  half-starved  man  worked  on, 
however,  until  one  day  he  opened  a vein.  It  was  a 


AN  OLD  TOWN  AND  THE  MINES  237 


bonanza.  He  took  the  man  who  had  stood  by  him 
into  partnership,  and  out  of  that  old  hole  the  two  dug 
millions  upon  millions  of  pesos,  and  to-day  they  stand 
amongst  the  wealthiest  men  in  Mexico. 

Another  peon  under  similar  circumstances  opened 
another  mine,  and  became  so  wealthy,  report  says,  he 
has  offered  to  pay  the  entire  national  debt  of  Mexico. 

The  circular  space  surrounding  Canelas  was  all 
under  cultivation,  and  even  on  the  steep  mountain 
sides  — so  steep  that  one  wonders  how  man  can  find 
footing  there,  and  keep  from  sliding  off  — corn  and 
beans  are  grown.  Ploughing  in  these  steep  places  is 
of  course  impossible,  but  men  crawl  along  and  plant 
the  seed  in  unbroken  ground,  and  leave  the  crops  to 
take  care  of  themselves  until  the  harvest  time. 

Wilkinson  got  me  into  an  awkward  situation  the 
morning  of  our  second  day  in  Canelas.  On  the  pre- 
vious evening  he  had  complained  of  a severe  headache, 
and  to  relieve  it  I administered  a five-grain  tablet  of 
acetanilid.  He  noted  my  leathern  medicine  case  with 
much  interest,  and  when  his  head  cleared  within  an 
hour  decided  that  I was  a physician,  and  immediately 
sang  my  praises  about  town. 

With  his  suave  and  agreeable  manner,  Wilkinson 
soon  made  friends  of  half  the  population.  A young 
peon  whom  he  met  was  suffering  with  a toothache, 
and  he  sent  the  fellow  to  me  for  treatment.  In  the 
few  words  of  Spanish  at  my  command  I endeavored 
to  explain  that  I was  neither  physician  nor  dentist, 
and  had  no  instruments  with  which  to  draw  the  tooth, 
nor  means  of  curing  it.  But  the  man  was  obdurate. 
My  mozo  had  said  I was  a medico,  and  he  ought  to 
know.  The  tooth  was  very  painful.  The  blessing 


238  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


of  the  saints  would  rest  upon  me  if  I would  exert  my 
skill.  If  I had  no  instruments  with  me  I had  medi- 
cines, and  I could  surely  give  him  something.  Wil- 
kinson had  said  I was  a great  medico,  for  I had  cured 
him  in  a very  short  time. 

Finally  in  self-defence  I painted  the  gums  around 
the  offending  tooth  with  iodine,  to  act  as  a counter- 
irritant,  and  on  general  principles  administered  a 
harmless  dose  from  my  limited  stock. 

The  iodine  relieved  the  pain,  and  my  patient  went 
his  way  rejoicing  and  to  spread  my  fame  broadcast. 
In  a little  while  I was  besieged.  Applicants  for  treat- 
ment crowded  in  upon  me  thick  and  fast.  I felt  the 
pulse  and  looked  at  the  tongue  of  each,  assumed  a 
wise  expression,  and  as  I had  nothing  else  to  give 
them  anyway,  dealt  out  in  ample  doses  a specific 
against  biliousness,  until  I had  made  ten  sufferers 
happy. 

When  I returned  to  our  quarters  at  dusk  from  a long 
tramp  — to  which  I had  resorted  to  escape  my  patients 
— I gave  Wilkinson  orders  to  have  the  mules  saddled 
and  ready  to  leave  town  at  daylight.  I was  filled  with 
misgivings  as  to  the  consequences  of  my  more  extended 
practice  of  medicine. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


THE  INDIANS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

WE  were  in  the  saddle  at  daybreak  and  five 
minutes  later  had  begun  the  tedious  ascent 
of  the  mountain  barrier.  For  several  hours 
we  climbed  steadily.  Canelas  shrank  into  the  depths, 
and  finally,  as  we  entered  the  forest  on  the  upper  levels, 
was  lost  to  view.  Here  we  came  into  snow  again,  but 
two  days  of  sunshine  had  settled  it,  and  a pack  train 
had  broken  the  trail. 

All  day,  and  for  several  days,  we  rode  through  a 
magnificent  forest  of  virgin  pine.  Many  of  the  trees 
had  been  tapped  by  the  Indians  for  rosin.  At  one 
point  a great  number  of  fine  saw-logs  had  been  cut 
and  piled,  but  lay  rotting  because  of  no  means  of 
taking  them  out  at  a profit.  At  a rough  estimate  I 
should  say  two  million  feet  of  lumber  had  been  cut 
and  abandoned  at  this  place. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  we  left  Canelas  we  passed 
a small  Indian  settlement,  and  toward  evening  en- 
tered another,  where  we  halted  for  the  night.  There 
were  eighteen  Indians  in  the  hut  where  we  took  up 
our  quarters  — or  rather  outside  of  which  we  slept 
upon  the  ground.  This  was  the  filthiest  aggregation 
of  humanity  I had  yet  come  in  contact  with,  and  evi- 
dently as  degraded  as  filthy.  I never  saw  anything 
to  surpass  them  in  this  respect,  even  amongst  Eskimos 
or  northern  Indians.  There  is  excuse  for  Eskimo 

239 


240  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


filth,  where  the  people  live  in  snow  igloos,  and  water 
can  be  had  only  by  melting  snow  or  ice  over  the 
meagre  blaze  of  a stone  lamp.  But  here  in  the  moun- 
tains of  Mexico,  with  abundant  water  flowing  past 
their  door  in  brooks  of  crystal  purity,  there  is  abso- 
lutely no  excuse  for  it. 

I believe  these  Indians  never  bathe  at  all.  In  fact 
there  is  a belief  amongst  them  that  to  bathe  is  to  court 
sickness  and  death,  and  their  skin  never  knows  the 
cleansing  influence  of  water  from  birth  until  death 
claims  their  clod-laden  bodies  to  join  the  clods  of 
Mother  Earth  from  which  they  sprang.  There  was 
a sick  boy  in  a hut  where  a friend  of  mine  stopped  one 
day,  and  my  friend  suggested  to  the  father  that  a 
bath  might  cure  him.  The  father  held  up  his  hands 
in  horror.  “A  bath!  That  would  kill  him!”  he  ex- 
claimed. "I  never  bathed  in  my  life,  and  my  chil- 
dren never  bathed,  and  never  will.” 

Down  in  the  low  countries  they  do  bathe  — once  a 
year.  At  midnight,  on  the  twenty-ninth  of  June  — 
St.  Peter’s  and  St.  Paul’s  Day.  The  two  good  saints 
calm  the  ocean,  and  make  the  water  harmless;  and 
those  within  reach  of  the  sea,  who  have  sufficient 
faith  in  the  protecting  powers  of  the  saints,  gather  there 
on  that  day  and  recklessly  wash  their  bodies.  At  points 
removed  from  the  coast,  the  twenty-fourth  of  June  is 
the  annual  bathing  day.  This  is  St.  John’s  Day,  and 
that  good  saint  has  a concession  to  mollify  the  rigors 
of  the  rivers,  for  the  benefit  of  the  would-be  clean  ones. 
So  down  in  the  lower  country  people  are  clean.  But 
here  in  the  mountains  no  saint  ever  moves  the  Indians 
to  such  a desperate  deed  as  bathing. 

Like  nearly  all  wilderness  dwellers,  they  are  exceed- 


INDIANS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS  241 


ingly  accommodating,  and  as  hospitable  as  circum- 
stances allow.  At  every  Indian  hut  where  we  spent 
a night,  the  women  offered  us  a bit  of  their  cookery 
to  help  out  our  cold  victuals;  and  after  we  had  eaten, 
invariably  cleansed  our  cups  by  wiping  out  the  coffee 
grounds  and  drying  the  cups  on  a corner  of  their 
reeking  skirts.  They  were  very  kind  in  the  perform- 
ance of  this  and  other  little  services. 

In  general,  the  Indians  of  the  interior  Mexican  moun- 
tains are  far  inferior  in  intelligence  and  ambition,  if 
not  in  physique,  to  our  Indians  of  the  United  States 
and  Canada.  The  difference  is  in  race  and  tempera- 
mental qualities.  It  cannot  be  said  that  their  lack 
of  energy  is  due  to  an  enervating  climate,  for  in  these 
mountain  heights  the  atmosphere  is  crisp  and  inspir- 
ing, and  would  move  any  ordinary  human,  with  red 
blood  in  his  veins,  to  exertion.  It  is  a climate  quite 
different  from  that  of  the  hot  and  humid  tropics,  where 
fever  and  burning  sun  combine  to  sap  life  and  energy 
from  man  and  beast  alike. 

Every  night  during  the  winter  months  the  tempera- 
ture drops  several  degrees  below  the  freezing-point, 
and  often  the  wind  is  sharp  and  piercing;  yet  not  one 
of  these  indolent  people  possesses  an  adequate  shelter. 
Their  miserable  huts  usually  contain  a single  room  with 
an  overhanging  roof  in  front  to  form  a shed.  Between 
the  unchinked  logs  one  can  thrust  one’s  fist,  and  the 
wind  is  hardly  checked. 

Their  fire  consists  of  a tiny  blaze,  for  they  are  very 
sparing  of  the  wood.  This  is  pure  laziness.  The  pine 
forests  in  which  they  live  offer  an  abundance  of  fuel 
for  the  wielding  of  an  axe,  but  they  shiver  and  suffer 
with  the  cold  rather  than  wield  the  axe. 


242  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


They  are  clad,  generally,  in  the  scantiest  and  thinnest 
of  cotton  garments.  Some  of  them  wear  sandals,  but 
many  go  barefooted.  The  head  of  the  family  usually 
owns  a zerape,  which  he  selfishly  retains  to  cover  his 
own  precious  body  at  night,  while  thejwomen  and  chil- 
dren are  left  to  huddle  together  upon  the  bare  earth 
in  a vain  endeavor  to  keep  warm. 

Everywhere  deer  are  plentiful,  and  there  are  bears 
and  wolves  and  other  animals  with  warm  coats,  which 
could  be  had  for  the  hunting.  But  hunting  demands 
an  expenditure  of  vital  force,  and  therefore  the  Indian 
rarely  hunts.  Occasionally  he  may  kill  a deer  for 
the  flesh,  but  the  skin,  which  could  be  transformed 
into  snug  bed  or  clothing,  is  discarded;  and  he  has 
never  learned  the  art  of  making  moccasins. 

So  far  as  my  observation  goes,  there  is  but  one 
thrifty,  active  body  of  Indians  in  all  Mexico  — the 
Yaqui  Indians  of  Sonora.  This  tribe,  which  belongs 
to  the  Apache  family,  stands  out  in  marked  contrast 
to  all  other  Indians  of  Mexico.  I believe  the  Mexican 
military,  as  well  as  all  who  have  come  in  contact  with 
the  Yaquis,  will  vouch  for  their  initiative,  energy,  and 
activity.  For  a long  while  they  played  hide  and  seek 
with  the  soldiers,  and  led  them  a merry  dance.  They 
not  only  maintained  themselves,  but  carried  on  a war 
against  the  Government  with  a persistence  that  is 
commendable. 

A few  of  the  Yaquis  have  sought  employment  on 
the  new  railroad  construction  work,  and  some  of  them 
are  engaged  as  cargadores  at  various  points  on  the 
Pacific  coast.  How  they  managed  to  escape  detec- 
tion and  capture  by  the  soldiers  I do  not  know,  but 
probably  by  travelling  singly  or  in  pairs.  Numbers 


A characteristic  hut 


A typical  Yaqui  Indian 


INDIANS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS  243 


of  them  left  their  country  from  time  to  time,  earned 
and  saved  as  much  money  as  possible,  with  which  to 
purchase  fresh  supplies,  and  then  returned  to  bear 
arms  in  the  fight  their  nation  waged  for  so  long 
against  the  Government,  for  freedom  and  the  right 
of  property.  One  of  these  men  was  employed  upon 
the  railroad  bridge  abutment  at  Culiacan.  He  was 
a full-blood,  typical  Yaqui  Indian  and  a fine  speci- 
men of  his  race.  His  foreman  told  me  he  was  worth 
any  three  of  the  other  native  workmen,  and  received 
double  as  much  wages  as  any  other  man  on  the  job, 
because  he  did  not  shirk,  and  was  a hard-working, 
industrious,  and  conscientious  fellow. 

Originally  the  Yaquis  were  an  agricultural  and  a 
home-loving  people.  They  once  possessed  a rich  tract 
of  land  along  the  Yaqui  River  in  Sonora,  and,  from  time 
immemorial,  planted  their  corn  and  lived  in  peace 
with  all  men  that  left  them  alone.  The  Spaniards 
tried  to  dispossess  them,  but  did  not  succeed.  The 
Mexicans  persecuted  and  hunted  them  until  they  were 
driven  to  desperation  and  were  forced  to  fight  for 
very  existence.  All  they  ever  asked  was  justice  — 
plain  justice  — and  to  be  dealt  with  fairly.  They 
claimed  title  to  the  land  they  had  always  held,  and  the 
right  to  cultivate  the  soil  and  live  peaceably  upon  it, 
undisturbed.  They  were  willing  to  give  allegiance  to 
the  Government  of  Mexico,  to  pay  taxes,  and  to  be 
good  citizens.  Mexico,  on  the  other  hand,  denied 
them  any  rights,  granted  their  holding  to  rich  hidalgos 
or  corporations,  and  sent  troops  to  enforce  the  recog- 
nition of  these  grants.  The  troops  have  striven  to 
drive  the  Yaquis  from  their  ancient  home,  they  have 
murdered  them  and  their  women  and  children,  or, 


244  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


when  captured,  they  have  taken  them  as  slaves  to 
die  in  the  fever  swamps  of  Yucatan. 

Many  reliable  witnesses  told  me  they  had  seen  bands 
of  Yaqui  captives  on  the  Tepic  road  driven,  like  cattle, 
under  the  lash,  by  mounted  soldiers.  They  saw  old 
men  and  women  fall  by  the  wayside  and  die,  and 
mothers  bearing  dead  babes  in  their  arms  totter 
hopelessly  to  their  doom. 

During  the  winter  I was  in  Mexico,  sixteen  Yaqui 
prisoners  on  a southward  bound  vessel,  when  off 
Mazatlan,  jumped  overboard  into  the  sea,  preferring 
death  in  the  waves  to  an  ignoble  slavery  in  Yucatan. 
Six  of  them  were  drowned,  and  the  others  when 
retaken  deplored  the  fate  that  had  denied  them  the 
death  of  their  comrades.  Nothing  but  keenest  misery 
could  prompt  such  feeling. 

The  Yaquis  fought  bravely  in  their  beautiful  valley, 
and  in  the  fastnesses  of  the  mountains  behind,  to  pre- 
serve their  homes  and  their  liberty  — that  was  all. 
But  if  that  is  not  the  true  spirit  of  patriotism,  what 
is?  That  is  what  Washington  and  our  forefathers 
fought  for,  and  who  can  say  that  any  ever  bore  arms 
in  a more  righteous  cause?  They  fought  a hopeless 
fight,  and  they  knew  it.  They  knew  that  they  would 
lose  in  the  end.  There  are  not  many  of  them  left,  and 
these  few  are  subdued  in  the  face  of  overpowering 
odds. 

We  hear  much  of  the  cruelty  of  these  Yaquis,  but 
who  can  blame  them  for  killing  and  torturing,  in 
retaliation  for  murder  and  torture,  all  Mexicans  who 
fell  within  their  reach?  Americans  used  to  come  out 
of  their  country  with  blood-curdling  tales  of  Yaqui 
depredation  and  Yaqui  cruelty.  But  let  me  say  that 


INDIANS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS  245 


no  American  ever  went  there  with  clean  hands,  undis- 
guised as  a Mexican,  or  unaccompanied  by  Mexicans, 
and  attended  to  his  own  business,  that  had  a hair 
of  his  head  injured.  I know  Americans  who  so 
visited  the  Yaqui  country,  and  who  saw  the  burned 
haciendas  of  the  hidalgos,  and  the  dead  bodies  of 
Mexicans,  and  who  met  bands  of  Yaquis,  but  they 
received  no  injury  from  them.  In  one  case  I recall, 
a man  lost  and  starving  was  given  food  and  a guide 
to  put  him  on  his  trail.  This  man  himself  related  the 
incident  to  me. 

It  is  charged  that  these  Indians  came  down  near  the 
towns  and  resorted  to  highway  robbery  and  the  mur- 
der of  innocent  travellers.  This  charge  was  without 
foundation,  and  was  a pretext  by  the  Government 
to  excuse  its  course  toward  them.  The  highwaymen 
were  ordinary  brigands,  and  many  of  them  were 
American  renegades,  driven  out  of  the  United  States. 
Every  day,  for  many  years,  a stage  has  passed  through 
the  Yaqui  country,  which  lies  south  of  the  place  where 
these  hold-ups  occur.  The  stage  is  loaded  with  mail 
and  valuable  matter,  and  is  open  to  attack  by  the 
Yaquis  at  many  points,  but  it  has  never  yet  been 
interfered  with. 

But  it  is  the  same  old  story.  It  is  only  a repetition 
of  our  treatment,  in  the  United  States,  of  our  Indians. 
It  began  with  the  landing  of  the  Pilgrims,  and  it  has 
continued  ever  since.  We  never  kept  faith  with  the 
Indians.  We  robbed  them,  and  goaded  them  into  fight- 
ing, and  then  murdered  them,  took  their  lands  and 
freedom  from  them,  and,  finally,  herded  them  upon 
inadequate  reservations  like  cattle  in  a corral. 

For  two  days  we  travelled  at  an  altitude  of  eight 


246  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 

thousand  feet.  Here  the  snow  had  disappeared,  but 
each  morning  the  ground  was  frozen  hard,  a half-inch 
of  ice  covered  water  pools,  and  a heavy  coat  of  hoar 
frost  lay  upon  everything.  In  sheltered  places  like 
ravines  and  gulches,  and  on  the  shaded  sides  of  hills, 
the  ice  remained  the  whole  day  long. 

These  were  glorious  mornings.  The  frost  sparkled 
and  scintillated  as  the  sun  broke  brilliantly  over  moun- 
tain peaks;  the  air,  with  its  tang  of  winter,  was  like 
wine;  and  the  scenery  magnificent  and  inspiring. 

More  than  once  as  we  rode  over  a ridge,  and  emerged 
suddenly  from  the  timber  into  an  open,  grass-grown 
hollow,  deer  scampered  away,  their  white  tails  show- 
ing for  an  instant  before  they  disappeared  into  the 
timber.  We  had  excellent  opportunities  to  shoot 
them,  but  we  could  not  have  used  the  venison,  had 
we  killed  them,  and  therefore  let  them  go  without 
interference. 

On  the  third  day  out  of  Canelas  we  reached  the 
junction  of  the  Canelas  and  Topia  trails,  and  now 
began  to  meet  mule  trains  carrying  supplies  from 
Tepehuanes  to  the  mines.  Once  we  passed  a long 
train  on  its  way  to  the  railroad,  laden  with  bars  of 
silver.  In  the  distance  we  could  hear,  echoing  through 
the  forest,  the  “Ho-o-ah-ho-o”  of  the  muleteers,  as 
they  shouted  to  the  animals.  In  the  evening  we  saw 
their  camps,  and  sometimes  passed  them  in  the  early 
morning  before  they  were  astir. 

Finally  we  again  entered  a rough  country,  where  we 
ascended  steep  trails  to  an  altitude  of  nearly  ten  thou- 
sand feet,  skirted  and  crossed  canyons,  and  were  treated 
to  some  scenery  of  exceptional  grandeur.  Here  were 
towering  cliffs  of  lime,  glistening  white  in  the  sun. 


Pack  train  laden  with  bars  of  silver 


Adobe  huts  took  the  place  of  log  cabins 


INDIANS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS  247 


The  mountain  cabins  assumed  a better  character. 
Some  of  them  were  calked  and  snug,  and  the  people 
were  more  civilized.  One  instance  of  this  was  the 
abandonment  of  the  ancient  stone,  and  the  adoption 
of  iron  mills,  similar  to  sausage  mills,  for  grinding  corn 
for  tortillas.  But  even  here  the  kerosene  lamp  has 
not  yet  supplanted  the  pine  knot  as  a means  of  illu- 
mination. 

We  had  crossed  the  divide,  and  the  waters  now 
flowed  toward  the  Atlantic.  For  a day  we  maintained 
a high  altitude,  and  were  surrounded  again  by  snow, 
but  at  last,  one  morning,  began  our  eastern  descent. 

At  twelve  o’clock  on  December  nine  we  came  out 
upon  a high  bluff,  and  below  us  lay  a fertile  valley. 
The  forest  was  behind  us.  As  we  dropped  into  the 
plain,  fields  of  maguey  and  corn  appeared  everywhere 
about  us.  Adobe  huts  took  the  place  of  log  cabins, 
and  gardens  of  tuna  cactus,  cultivated  for  its  fruit, 
lined  the  trail.  One  village  of  adobe  that  we  rode 
through  resembled  from  a distance  the  ruins  of  some 
ancient  town.  Within  three  hours  the  whole  aspect 
of  the  country  had  changed.  The  trail  was  crowded 
with  pack  trains  of  merchandise,  the  people  had  as- 
sumed a more  conventional  air,  and  at  last,  when  we 
forded  a river  and  came  upon  a stage  road,  I knew 
that  the  railroad  was  near  at  hand,  — and  was  not 
disappointed.  Two  more  fordings  of  the  river,  then 
up  a hill,  and  below  us  lay  Tepehuanes,  with  its  tall 
church  spire,  its  adobe  houses,  and  beyond  the  cosey 
American  railroad  station  and  lines  of  rails  leading 
away  to  link  it  with  the  great  world  without. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

A GLIMPSE  OF  THE  EAST 

NARROW,  crooked  streets,  lined  with  adobe 
huts;  Indians  lounging  in  doorways;  stray 
pigs  and  numberless  dogs,  foraging  for  refuse ; 
a gray  church  spire;  brown,  barren  hills  rising  beyond, 
a river  winding  at  their  base;  the  whole  bathed  in  daz- 
zling white  sunlight  with  patches  of  ink-black  shadows 
spread  upon  the  ground  — this  was  Tepehuanes  as  we 
rode  into  it  that  brilliant  December  afternoon. 

In  the  central  and  more  substantial  part  of  the  town 
we  found  the  Hotel  Internacional,  and  entered  its  wide 
doorway  to  dismount  in  the  patio.  Here  an  effusively 
polite  landlord  greeted  us,  and  assigned  to  me  a room  — 
the  best,  he  declared  — in  his  most  excellent  estab- 
lishment. The  room  had  no  windows,  the  stone  walls 
were  damp,  and  water  oozed  out  of  the  earthen  floor 
in  one  corner.  A bed,  however,  with  mattress  and 
clean  sheets  upon  it,  promising  a night  of  comfort, 
counterbalanced  all  defects. 

In  the  little  dining-room  we  were  served  with  a very 
good  dinner,  and  while  we  ate  our  host  stood  over  us, 
smiling  and  rubbing  his  hands  and  talking.  “Where 
did  senor  come  from?  Culiacan!  Es  possible!  A 
long  journey!  Was  there  not  much  snow  in  the 
mountains?  Yes?  And  it  was  very  cold?  Where 
is  senor  going?  Mexico?  A beautiful  city!  I have 
been  there  often.  But  senor  will  remain  with  us  for 

248 


A GLIMPSE  OF  THE  EAST 


249 


two  days.  The  train  is  already  leaving.  Manana? 
No,  there  is  no  train  manana.  The  senor  will  rest  here 
until  the  day  after,  when  there  will  be  a train.”  This 
was  all  my  slight  smattering  of  Spanish  permitted  me 
to  gather  from  our  loquacious  landlord’s  conversation, 
but  it  was  enough  to  cut  my  dinner  short,  and  hurry 
me  down  to  the  railroad ; for  I had  no  desire  to  remain 
two  days  in  Tepehuanes. 

Below  the  village  is  a stretch  of  sand,  then  the  river, 
and  on  the  opposite  high  bank  the  passenger  station. 
No  bridge  spanned  the  stream,  and  no  means  of  cross- 
ing the  swiftly  flowing  water  without  a mount  presented 
itself.  But  it  made  no  matter.  I reached  there  just 
in  time  to  see  the  engine,  with  a string  of  freight  cars 
and  two  passenger  coaches,  puffing  up  the  grade;  and, 
resigned  to  an  enforced  residence  in  Tepehuanes, 
returned  at  a more  sober  gait  to  the  hotel. 

Wilkinson  and  the  mules  were  established  at  a 
masson  in  a by-street.  Our  saddle  mules  were  quite 
worn  out  with  their  hard  mountain  climbing,  but 
Maud,  the  irrepressible  pack  mule,  in  spite  of  her  lame 
shoulder  and  one  eye,  was  as  bright  and  chipper  to  all 
outward  appearances  as  the  day  we  rode  out  of  Culia- 
can.  She  had  justified  herself.  Maud  had  shown 
that  she  was  an  old  campaigner.  Unlike  the  other 
animals,  she  was  a good  forager,  and  never  lost  a 
moment,  when  we  halted  for  any  purpose,  to  gather 
in  whatever  there  was  in  sight  to  be  eaten;  and  to  her, 
everything  green  was  included  within  that  category. 
I often  saw  her,  in  dangerous  descents,  where  the 
other  mules  could  hardly  find  a footing,  slide  gayly 
down  the  rocks  with  the  utmost  unconcern,  and  grab 
at  tempting  boughs  by  the  way.  . • . 


250  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


The  morning  sun  had  not  yet  driven  away  the  hoar 
frost  when  I emerged,  after  a good  night’s  rest,  for  a 
walk  before  breakfast,  and  to  enjoy  the  snappy  morn- 
ing air.  Tepehuanes  lies  in  a river  valley,  at  an  alti- 
tude of  sixty-five  hundred  feet  above  the  sea.  It  has 
a delightful  and  picturesque  situation.  The  valley 
through  which  the  river  courses  is  verdant  and  fruit- 
ful, the  first  rise  of  hills  seared  and  red-brown,  in 
marked  contrast  to  the  lower  green,  and  above  all, 
to  the  westward  tower  in  grandeur  the  mighty  moun- 
tains, their  higher  peaks  at  this  time  white  with  snow. 

After  breakfast  I saddled  Bucephalus  and  rode  over 
to  the  railway  station  to  verify  the  landlord’s  state- 
ment as  to  trains.  It  is  a typical  American  station, 
and  in  contrast  to  the  native  buildings  of  Spanish 
design  — those  cold,  cheerless,  unsympathetic  blocks 
of  masonry  — appealed  to  me  as  exceedingly  cosey 
and  homelike.  This  sense  of  coseyness  was  increased 
when  I entered  the  little  waiting-room  and  heard 
telegraph  instruments  in  the  adjoining  office  ticking 
off  messages  in  English.  I paused  for  a moment  to 
listen  to  them  before  presenting  myself  at  the  ticket 
window. 

Sitting  at  his  desk  was  the  station  agent,  a pleasant- 
faced, middle-aged  American. 

“Good-morning,  sir,”  I greeted.  “When  can  I get 
a train  to  Durango?  I wish  to  connect  there  for 
Monterey  and  Mexico  City.” 

“Good-morning,”  said  he,  rising  and  coming  to  the 
window.  “The  next  train  will  leave  at  five-thirty 
to-morrow  evening,  and  will  make  a close  connection 
for  you  at  Durango  the  following  day.  Come  into  the 
office  and  I’ll  show  you  the  time  card.  We’ve  a fire.” 


, bathed  in  brilliant  December  sunshine 


A view  of  T epeliuanes 


A GLIMPSE  OF  THE  EAST 


251 


"Thank  you,”  I accepted,  explaining  as  I entered, 
"I’m  an  old  telegraph  operator  and  railroader,  and  I 
enjoy  getting  alongside  the  instruments.” 

"My  name  is  Boon  Barker,”  remarked  he,  extending 
his  hand,  "and  it’s  a pleasure  to  meet  a railroader 
from  home.” 

I returned  his  hearty  handshake  and  introducing 
myself  explained:  "My  last  railroading  and  telegraph- 
ing was  on  the  Fitchburg,  down  in  Massachusetts,  and 
I quit  there  in  1889,  so  you  see  I ’ve  degenerated  into 
an  old-time  plug.” 

"You’re  not  Dillon  Wallace  of  Labrador?”  asked 
Barker. 

"I’ve  been  to  Labrador,”  I confessed. 

"Well!  well!”  he  exclaimed,  again  shaking  my 
hand  vigorously,  "then  we’re  old  friends,  for  I’ve 
followed  you  in  your  travels.” 

This,  and  Barker’s  intense  interest  in  Northern 
exploration,  put  us  upon  terms  of  good-fellowship  at 
once.  I learned  that  he  had  been  a soldier  of  the 
regular  army,  and  was  a first  sergeant  under  Lieutenant 
Lockwood  at  the  time  Lockwood  volunteered  for 
service  on  the  Lady  Franklin  Bay  Expedition.  They 
were  in  Colorado  at  the  time,  running  telegraph  lines, 
and  Barker  was  Lockwood’s  operator,  sharing  a tent 
with  him. 

I had  the  pleasure  of  an  introduction  to  Mrs.  Barker 
and  their  three  charming  children,  and  my  afternoon 
with  the  family  is  one  of  the  very  pleasant  recollec- 
tions of  my  journey.  The  oldest  child,  a boy  of  seven, 
rides  with  his  father  into  the  high  mountains,  and  is 
already  an  accomplished  horseman,  always  eager  for 
the  sport  of  a hunting  or  camping  trip.  When  the 


252  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


little  girl  learned  that  I was  going  to  a place  where 
there  was  a great  deal  of  candy  of  all  kinds,  she  climbed 
upon  my  knee  and  told  me,  in  the  strictest  confidence, 
what  varieties  and  flavors  she  liked  best. 

It  was  half-past  five,  and  already  twilight,  the 
following  evening  when  the  train  pulled  out  of  Tepe- 
huanes,  and  I found  myself  at  last  comfortably  settled 
with  a cigar  in  a corner  of  the  first-class  coach,  on  my 
way  to  Mexico  City. 

Two  Americans  and  a young  English  engineer,  who 
had  ridden  over  from  a mine  near  Topia,  and  had 
barely  caught  the  train,  occupied  the  seats  opposite. 
One  of  the  Americans,  a New  Yorker,  and  evidently 
a promoter,  was  chief  of  the  trio.  He  seemed  bent 
upon  impressing  his  own  opinion  of  his  importance 
upon  his  companions  and  me,  the  only  other  white 
passengers  on  the  train,  — an  opinion,  I am  free  to 
say,  I at  least  did  not  accept  at  its  owner’s  appraisal. 
He  talked  in  a loud  voice  about  his  journey,  “New 
Yawk,”  and  the  possible  status  of  the  stock  “maket.” 
Some  Mexican  “lawr”  (meaning  law)  did  not  suit 
him,  and  he  was  quite  dissatisfied  with  the  “earl” 
(meaning  oil)  lamps  in  the  car.  In  the  hope  that  I 
might  learn  something  of  the  effect  of  the  financial 
panic  in  the  United  States,  then  at  its  height,  upon 
mining  operations  in  Mexico,  I attempted  conversa- 
tion, but  my  friend  was  so  patronizing  that  I soon 
slunk  humbly  back  into  my  corner.  I had  an  intui- 
tion, however,  that  such  information  as  might  have 
been  gleaned  from  him  would  not  have  been  of  sig- 
nificant value. 

It  is  unfortunate,  but  true,  that  one  meets  a great 
many  of  this  class  of  our  countrymen  in  Mexico,  and 


The  author  and  the  youngest  child  of  Mr.  Boon  Barker,  at  Tepehuanes 

station 


The  lad  who  coidd  ride  and  the  lass  who  liked  candy 


A GLIMPSE  OF  THE  EAST 


253 


more  than  often  has  occasion  to  blush  for  them. 
They  brag  inconsiderately  and  consistently,  and  always 
endeavor  to  show  what  very  important  individuals 
they  themselves  are,  never  forgetting  to  find  fault 
with  everything  not  American  — unless  it  will  militate 
against  their  personal  interests.  Of  course  one  knows 
that  they  are  by  no  means  representative,  and  are 
in  fact  usually  very  small  ducks  in  the  little  puddle 
in  which  they  swim  at  home;  but  at  the  same  time 
they  are  Americans,  and  one  is  compelled  to  own  them 
as  fellow-citizens,  which  is  sometimes  exceedingly 
embarrassing. 

There  is  another  class  of  Americans  who  have  lived 
in  Mexico  for  a great  many  years,  some  of  them  be- 
cause they  do  not  find  it  healthful  at  home  and  are 
not  in  cordial  accord  with  prosecuting  attorneys  and 
police  authorities  north  of  the  Rio  Grande;  and  others 
who  have  investments,  or  whose  business  relations 
keep  them  there.  These  are  constantly  comparing 
Mexico  and  Mexicans  with  the  United  States  and 
Americans,  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  latter,  and  en- 
deavor to  impress  all  visitors  with  their  own  expressed 
belief  that  everything  and  everybody  south  of  the 
international  boundary  is  vastly  superior  to  every- 
thing north  of  it.  They  will  never  admit  that  Mexico 
or  her  people  are  not  the  ideal  of  perfection  in  every 
respect;  and  to  suggest  to  them  that  there  is  much 
room  for  improvement  there  is  to  insult  them.  Of 
course  these  people  are  expatriates,  and  not  to  be  taken 
seriously. 

There  are  no  Pullman  cars  on  the  Tepehuanes 
branch,  and  therefore  no  sleeping  accommodations 
upon  the  train,  which,  after  a two  and  a half  hours’ 


254  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


run,  lies  up  for  the  night  at  Santiago  Papasquiaro. 
Here  passengers  seek  such  lodgings  as  they  can  find 
in  the  town,  a mile  distant  from  the  station.  I was 
calculating  upon  the  probability  of  being  able  to  bribe 
the  baggageman  to  permit’  me  to  bunk  in  his  car, 
rather  than  risk  the  uncertainty  of  such  accommoda- 
tions as  might  be  secured  in  a primitive  and  over- 
crowded hotel,  when  the  train  conductor  entered  and 
took  a seat  beside  me. 

“You  might  not  find  very  pleasant  quarters  in 
Santiago  Papasquiaro,”  said  he,  “and  I’d  be  very  glad 
if  you ’d  be  my  guest  for  the  night.  We  railroad  men 
have  a shack  for  a dining-place,  and  a pretty  good 
cook,  and  I have  an  extra  room  in  a native  house  near 
the  station  that’s  at  your  service.” 

Of  course  I accepted,  and  thanked  him  most  heartily 
for  his  thoughtfulness  and  hospitality  to  a stranger. 
Our  acquaintance  had  begun  scarcely  an  hour  before, 
in  an  introduction  by  Barker.  This  conductor  was 
W.  B.  Goodspeed,  an  American  who  has  been  in  the 
employ  of  the  International  and  National  Lines  of 
Mexico  for  upwards  of  twenty  years.  His  treatment 
of  me  was  characteristic  of  what  a traveller  in  the 
Republic  may  expect  at  the  hands  of  railway  em- 
ployees. All  of  the  American  officials  of  the  Mexican 
railroads,  with  whom  I came  in  contact,  were  most 
courteous  and  accommodating.  Through  Mr.  Good- 
speed’s  kindly  hospitality,  I enjoyed  not  only  a com- 
fortable bed  in  Santiago  Papasquiaro,  but  the  best 
meals  I had  eaten  since  leaving  Culiacan. 

For  a considerable  distance  beyond  Santiago  Papas- 
quiaro the  country  is  rough  and  mountainous,  the 
hills  and  rocks  sometimes  assuming  peculiar  and  fan- 


Photograph  by  Charles  N.  Remington 


The  valley  in  which  Monterey  lies 


A GLIMPSE  OF  THE  EAST 


255 


tastic  shapes.  At  one  point  a tall  shaft,  carved  by- 
nature  out  of  the  living  rock,  surmounts  a dome- 
shaped crest,  like  an  obelisk  erected  to  some  forgotten 
monarch. 

Finally  the  landscape  changes,  and  the  train  passes 
into  a flat,  uninteresting  district,  devoted  chiefly  to 
cattle-raising,  though  great  stretches  of  it  are  so 
barren  that  cattle  would  find  it  difficult  indeed  to 
pick  a living.  The  soil  of  these  barren  stretches  is 
sand  or  adobe,  there  is  insufficient  water  for  irrigation, 
and  therefore  it  is  of  small  agricultural  value.  Much 
of  it,  however,  is  mineralized,  and  numerous  cones  of 
masonry,  scattered  over  the  plain,  mark  abandoned 
shafts  of  worked-out  mines. 

Now  and  again  our  train  stopped  at  villages,  and 
the  greater  part  of  the  population  of  each  was  gathered 
at  the  station  to  witness  our  arrival.  Whenever  a 
passenger  boarded  or  left  the  train,  there  was  always 
an  army  of  friends  to  bid  farewell  or  extend  a welcome 
to  the  traveller. 

The  city  of  Durango,  with  a population  of  forty- 
five  thousand,  lies  at  an  altitude  of  sixty-two  hundred 
feet  above  the  sea.  At  this  season  the  nights  are 
frosty,  and  when  I arrived  a high  wind  was  blowing, 
and  the  air  was  filled  with  sand  and  dust.  This  is  the 
centre  of  a rich  mining  district,  and  the  traveller  is 
certain  to  have  pointed  out  to  him  the  wonderful 
mountain  of  iron,  and  to  hear  marvellous  tales  of 
fabulous  wealth  of  gold  and  silver  yielded  up  to  the 
miner  by  the  surrounding  hills.  On  my  outward 
journey  I did  not  stop,  but  tarried  for  a day  upon  my 
return.  Now  the  train  for  Monterey  was  waiting, 
and  I immediately  transferred  to  the  Pullman  sleeper, 


256  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


to  revel  in  its  luxury,  and  enjoy  a good  juicy  Ameri- 
can steak  served  by  a polite  American  negro  porter. 

Monterey  is  a popular  tourist  resort,  and  is  pretty 
thoroughly  conventionalized.  The  city  has,  however, 
some  interesting  side  streets  and  corners,  typically 
Mexican,  and  a few  relics  of  earlier  days,  which  have 
not  been  crowded  out  by  the  new  civilization.  Notable 
among  the  latter  is  the  old  church  of  San  Francisco, 
originally  built  in  1560  and  rebuilt  in  1730.  Adjoin- 
ing it  is  a convent,  which,  authorities  say,  is  the  origi- 
nal convent  built  in  connection  with  the  church  in  1560. 

By  far  the  most  interesting  point  to  Americans 
round  about  Monterey  is  the  Bishop’s  Palace,  on  the 
Chepe  Vera  Hill.  It  was  built  by  Bishop  Verger  in 
1782.  Its  special  interest  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  was 
the  centre  of  the  battle  of  Monterey,  and  on  Septem- 
ber 22,  1846,  was  captured  by  General  Taylor  after 
a stout  defence. 

I engaged  a carriage  and  drove  out  to  the  battle- 
ground in  the  afternoon.  The  Chepe  Vera  Hill  is  a 
barren  eminence.  Near  its  top  I was  able  to  trace 
some  of  the  breastworks  used  by  the  Mexicans  during 
the  battle.  The  Bishop’s  Palace  on  the  crest  is  now 
occupied  only  by  two  soldiers,  detailed  to  protect  it 
from  the  ravages  of  souvenir-hunting  tourists.  This 
is  an  actual  necessity.  Tourist  vandals  were  making 
such  havoc  upon  the  building  that  for  a time  the 
authorities  were  forced  to  close  it  and  exclude  all 
visitors.  Now,  upon  certain  conditions,  one  may  be 
permitted  to  enter. 

To  the  eastward  of  the  Chepe  Vera  Hill  Monterey 
nestles  in  a valley  amid  picturesque  surroundings. 
A haze  of  smoke  hovered  over  the  valley,  and  par- 


The  old  church  of  San  Francisco,  Monterey 


The  Bishop's  Palace,  Monterey 


A GLIMPSE  OF  THE  EAST 


257 


tially  veiled  from  view  the  city  and  the  two  most 
notable  mountains,  Cerro  de  la  Sila,  or  Saddle  Moun- 
tain, and  Cerro  de  las  Mitras,  or  Mountain  of  Mitres. 
Topo  Chico  Hill  lies  to  the  westward,  and  at  its  base 
are  the  famous  Topo  Chico  mineral  springs,  to  which 
Montezuma’s  daughter  is  said  to  have  come  to  be 
cured  of  a malady  by  the  wonderful  medicinal  prop- 
erties of  the  waters. 

Monterey  has  a population  of  seventy-five  thousand, 
and  is  the  second  city  in  importance  in  the  Republic. 
Considerable  American  capital  is  invested  here  in 
manufacturing  industries.  The  American  colony  num- 
bers upwards  of  five  thousand.  The  chief  need  of  the 
city  at  present  is  a good  hotel,  and  business  men,  I 
was  informed,  stand  ready  to  pay  half  the  expense  of 
erecting  one.  The  main  obstacle  is  the  difficulty  of 
securing  a suitable  site,  through  high  and  inflated 
values  placed  upon  land.  Since  my  visit  Monterey 
has  experienced  a terrible  disaster.  In  August,  1909, 
the  city  was  flooded  by  unusually  heavy  rains,  more 
than  two  thousand  people  were  drowned,  and  a quar- 
ter of  the  city  destroyed. 

It  was  Sunday  morning  when  I reached  Mexico  City, 
where  I engaged  quarters  in  a hotel  on  the  famous 
Calle  de  San  Francisco,  not  far  from  the  centre  of  the 
business  section. 

I spent  the  day  in  the  Plaza  Mayor,  or  Zocalo,  as 
it  is  sometimes  called,  recounting  to  myself  the 
remarkable  history  of  this  bit  of  ground,  and  trying 
to  picture  it  as  it  appeared  in  the  days  of  Montezuma. 
The  Zocalo  was  the  centre  of  the  Aztec  capitol.  On 
its  east,  where  the  National  Palace  now  stands,  was 
Montezuma’s  palace,  and  later  the  palace  of  the 


258  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


Viceroys;  on  the  north,  the  cathedral  rises  upon  the 
very  foundations  of  the  great  teacali,  the  Aztec  temple, 
where  untold  thousands  were  annually  offered  in 
sacrifice  to  the  terrible  Huitzilopotchli.  This,  too, 
was  the  scene  of  those  battles  between  the  conquerors 
and  the  vanquished  that  finally  decided  the  fate  of 
Anahuac. 

The  cathedral  is  said  to  be  the  finest  in  the  Western 
Hemisphere.  Certainly  it  is  an  imposing  and  beauti- 
ful structure,  with  its  two  majestic  towers  and  splendid 
facade.  The  building  is  three  hundred  and  eighty- 
seven  feet  in  length  by  one  hundred  and  seventy-seven 
in  width.  Within  are  two  rows  of  Doric  pillars,  and 
a high  and  imposing  dome.  Both  sides  of  the  interior 
are  lined  with  chapels  dedicated  to  saints.  The  altar 
rails  and  trimmings,  it  is  claimed,  are  of  solid  silver 
and  gold,  but  the  incredulous  say  that  the  precious 
metals  were  long  since  removed  and  plated  counter- 
parts substituted.  The  walls  of  the  sacristy  are 
covered  with  paintings,  which  to  me  were  not  particu- 
larly interesting;  and  at  one  end  of  the  choir  is  what 
is  said  to  be  a genuine  Murillo  Madonna. 

I returned  early  to  the  hotel,  and  sat  the  evening 
out  at  a lobby  window  watching  an  endless  parade  of 
handsome  equipages  in  which  the  flower  of  the  city 
were  on  exhibition.  This  parade  is  a regular  Sunday 
evening  institution,  peculiar  to  Mexico  City.  The 
carriages  pass  through  the  Calle  de  San  Francisco  to 
the  Zocalo,  around  to  the  Alameda,  and  thence  back 
to  the  Calle  de  San  Francisco,  making  the  circle  again 
and  again.  There  were  many  beautiful  women  on 
exhibition,  but  most  of  them  were  too  profuse  in  the 
application  of  face  powder.  This  is  the  fashion,  how- 


The  Cathedral,  Mexico  City 


American  Country  Club,  Mexico  City 


A GLIMPSE  OF  THE  EAST 


259 


ever,  all  over  Mexico.  If  a woman  is  handsome,  or 
thinks  she  is,  she  almost  invariably  spoils  her  good 
looks  in  an  attempt  to  improve  upon  nature  by  making 
her  face  ghastly  with  powder. 

I had  a letter  of  introduction  to  Dr.  A.  R.  Goodman, 
Surgeon  General  of  the  National  Railway  Lines,  and 
when  I presented  myself  on  Monday  morning  the 
Doctor  received  me  with  the  greatest  cordiality,  and 
devoted  several  hours  to  showing  me  the  city.  In 
his  automobile  we  traversed  the  historic  causeway 
over  which  Cortez  made  his  desperate  retreat;  we 
passed  the  place  where  Alvarado  made  his  famous 
leap;  the  Tree  of  La  Noche  Triste,  under  which,  so  the 
legend  say,  Cortez  wept  on  that  dismal  night.  This 
tree,  sprouted  a thousand  years  ago,  spread  its  shade 
as  it  does  to-day  far  back  in  that  prehistoric  period 
when  Tenochtitlan  was  young.  The  top  of  the  tree 
is  broken  and  decayed,  and  an  iron  fence  has  been 
built  around  it  to  keep  it  safe  from  souvenir-hunting 
tourists. 

We  visited  Chapultepec  (the  Hill  of  the  Grass- 
hopper), where  the  Aztec  rulers  had  their  summer 
home,  tradition  says.  The  present  palace,  built  by 
Spanish  Viceroys,  is  the  suburban  residence  of  Presi- 
dent Diaz.  What  tales  the  giant  ahuehuelts,  which 
stand  below,  might  tell,  if  they  could  only  speak! 
They  thrived  in  this  very  soil  before  the  world  knew 
there  was  a Western  Hemisphere.  They  witnessed 
the  progress  and  destruction  of  a semi-civilization  of 
which  we  to-day  know  all  but  nothing.  Generations 
of  men  have  been  born,  have  acted  their  part  upon 
the  stage  of  life,  and  are  gone  and  forgotten;  kingdoms, 
republics,  and  empires  have  risen  and  fallen;  wars  upon 


260  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


wars  have  swept  the  land;  one  race  of  man  has  sup- 
planted another;  and  these  trees  have  stood  through 
it  all,  and  still  live  on,  indefinitely  on,  defiant  of  Time, 
silent  witnesses  of  human  frailty. 

Not  far  away  is  the  Molino  del  Rey,  where  the  battle 
of  September  28,  1847,  was  fought.  This  is,  of  course, 
of  special  interest  to  the  American  visitor.  One  may 
see  the  old  mill  from  Chapultepec. 

But  every  nook  and  corner  of  Mexico  and  the  sur- 
rounding country  has  its  bit  of  history  and  romance, 
and  a single  chapter  would  not  suffice  for  even  the 
barest  mention  of  the  most  important.  We  must 
forego  so  much  as  a reference  to  them,  for  Mexico 
City  is  not  beyond  the  Sierras,  and  should  have  no 
part  in  a narrative  of  a journey  through  the  western 
country.  Unconsciously  my  pen  has  led  me  into 
this  digression. 

One  pleasant  incident,  however,  I cannot  pass. 
In  the  old  days  when  I was  reasonably  content  to  sit 
at  a desk  in  a New  York  office  and  scan  the  horizon 
for  clients,  and  spend  an  evening  at  the  club,  I had  a 
friend.  This  friend  was  Warren  H.  Fiske,  a rising 
young  electrical  engineer.  I had  lost  touch  with  him 
for  several  years  until  one  evening,  a year  or  so  before 
my  visit  to  Mexico,  I met  him  unexpectedly  in  Toronto, 
Canada,  and  learned  that  he  was  living  and  practising 
his  profession  there.  What  was  my  surprise,  then, 
when  he  honked  up  to  my  hotel  in  his  auto  car  two  or 
three  days  after  my  arrival,  and  pulled  me  into  it  and 
whisked  me  away  to  his  home,  and  I learned  that  he 
was  the  Superintendent  of  Motive  Power  of  the  Mexico 
City  street  railway  system,  busily  engaged  in  installing 
new  power  houses  and  equipment.  It  was  a jolly 


A GLIMPSE  OF  THE  EAST 


261 


meeting,  as  such  unexpected  meetings  are  sure  to  be. 
He  took  possession  of  me  during  the  remaining  days 
of  my  stay,  and  whirled  me  in  his  car  all  over  the  city 
and  through  the  chief  suburbs. 

One  of  these  suburbs  I cannot  leave  without  a word 
— Coyoacan.  I could  have  spent  hours  in  wandering 
about  this  old  town,  breathing  its  atmosphere  of 
romance.  Here  stands  the  house  in  which  Cortez 
lived  with  La  Marina  while  Mexico  City  was  being 
rebuilt.  An  iron  railing  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street  blocks  a secret  underground  entrance  to  the 
house.  Near  by  is  another  house  which  he  occupied 
for  a time,  and  in  its  enclosed  yard  is  the  well  in  which 
he  is  said  to  have  drowned  his  wife.  Not  far  away 
is  the  church,  and  between  the  house  and  the  church 
is  a cairn  of  stone  surmounted  by  a cross  erected  by 
the  conqueror  over  the  grave  of  the  wife  he  murdered. 

Finally,  and  much  too  soon,  the  day  of  my  departure 
for  Tepehuanes  and  the  Pacific  arrived,  Fiske  saw  me 
to  the  train,  and  with  regret  I said  adios  to  him  and 
to  the  historic  and  fascinating  Capital. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


THE  CANYON  TRAIL 

ON  the  evening  of  December  twenty-third  my 
train  drew  into  Tepehuanes.  Wilkinson  met 
me  at  the  railway  station,  and  I instructed 
him  to  have  the  mules  saddled  and  ready  for  a prompt 
start  upon  our  return  journey  the  following  morning, 
for  already  I was  overdue  in  Mazatlan. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barker  urged  that  I remain  with  them 
until  after  the  holiday.  The  little  ones  and  all  were 
filled  with  the  spirit  of  Christmas.  Florence  and  How- 
ard, the  two  older  children,  told  me  of  the  many 
things  they  expected  Santa  Claus  to  bring  them.  A 
big  bronze  turkey  from  the  mountains,  a barrel  of 
luscious  red-cheeked  American  apples,  and  innumerable 
other  good  things  held  forth  the  promise  of  a day  of 
feasting  and  pleasure,  and  in  the  face  of  all  this  it 
was  indeed  a hardship  to  decline.  I accepted,  how- 
ever, a cordial  invitation  to  spend  the  night  with  my 
friends,  rather  than  in  the  cheerless  hotel. 

The  next  morning  everything  was  white  with  frost, 
the  ground  frozen,  pools  of  water  covered  with  a scum 
of  ice,  the  sky  clear,  the  air  snappy,  and  the  day  per- 
fect for  travelling.  In  spite  of  my  injunction  to  be 
ready  at  an  early  hour,  it  was  past  ten  o’clock  when 
Wilkinson  appeared  with  the  mules.  He  was  never 
ambitious  to  leave  the  larger  towns  in  which  we 
stopped.  I have  reason  to  believe  him  a gay  Lothario, 

262 


THE  CANYON  TRAIL 


263 


with  a sweetheart  in  every  place  he  visited:  or  at 
any  rate  a very  susceptible  fellow,  and  at  the  same 
time  a very  fickle  one.  He  was  always  loath  to  part 
from  the  charmer  of  the  moment,  but  under  the  glances 
of  a new  pair  of  flashing  black  eyes  he  quickly  forgot 
the  old,  and  melted  as  readily  as  a piece  of  butter  in 
the  summer  sun,  — and  sparkling  black  eyes  were 
plenty  in  every  village  by  the  way. 

When  we  finally  rode  out  of  Tepehuanes  my  saddle 
bags  were  well  filled  with  red-cheeked  apples  and  a 
loaf  of  Mrs.  Barker’s  good  bread,  the  latter  a real 
luxury  in  this  land  of  tortillas.  An  hour’s  brisk  travel- 
ling carried  us  out  of  the  valley  and  found  us  winding 
up  the  trail  into  the  peaks,  and  before  night  fell  we 
were  surrounded  by  patches  of  snow,  and  passing 
sheltered  banks  crystalled  with  ice  that  even  the  mid- 
day warmth  did  not  effect. 

What  glorious  nights  these  were!  Nature  was  in  a 
better  mood  than  when  we  made  our  outward  trip. 
Not  a cloud  flecked  the  sky;  the  stars,  from  a bed  of 
azure,  just  above  our  heads,  gazed  down  upon  us  with 
wide-open  eyes.  We  were  very  close  to  heaven  indeed, 
here  in  these  mountain  heights. 

Christmas  Day  was  one  of  superb  loveliness.  The 
deep  blue  sky  was  still  studded  with  stars  as  we  ate 
a meagre  breakfast  in  the  open,  and  before  the  sun 
had  tipped  the  sea  of  surrounding  snow-capped  peaks 
with  silver,  and  while  the  canyons  and  ravines  were  still 
dark,  we  swung  into  the  saddle  to  enjoy  as  we  rode  the 
radiant  morning,  the  pine-scented  forest,  and  the  great, 
marvellous,  gorgeous  world  that  lay  about  us. 

No  halt  was  made  during  the  day,  save  to  recinch 
the  saddles.  A few  apples  sufficed  for  luncheon  while 


264  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


we  rode,  and  it  was  finally  long  past  dark,  after  eleven 
continuous  hours  on  the  trail,  when  we  dismounted  at 
a cabin,  ready  to  enjoy  to  the  utmost  a Christmas 
dinner  of  tortillas,  very  hot  chille  con  carne,  and  strong 
black  coffee;  and  I was  weary  enough  to  roll  into  my 
blanket  upon  the  ground,  after  a solacing  pipe,  and 
sink  at  once  into  slumber. 

It  had  been  my  intention  to  return  by  way  of  Topia, 
a small  mining  village  lying  to  the  north  of  Canelas, 
strike  the  river  trail  a few  miles  below  Canelas,  follow 
the  canyons  westward,  and  thus  proceed  to  Culiacan. 
But  it  was  imperative  that  I be  in  Mazatlan  as  early 
in  January  as  possible,  and  therefore,  when  we  reached 
the  branching  of  the  Canelas  and  Topia  trails,  and  I 
learned  that  Wilkinson  was  by  no  means  certain  that 
he  was  sufficiently  familiar  with  the  trail  to  Topia  to 
guide  me  there  directly  and  without  delay,  I decided 
to  retrace  our  old  route  to  Canelas,  drop  into  the  river 
trail  at  that  point,  and  take  no  chances  upon  being 
lost. 

At  noon  on  December  twenty-seventh  we  again  rode 
into  Canelas.  Wilkinson  urged  that  we  remain  here 
for  the  night,  assuring  me  that  it  would  require  the 
whole  afternoon  to  replace  a shoe  that  one  of  the  mules 
had  cast.  I felt  confident,  however,  that  the  mule 
was  not  the  object  of  Wilkinson’s  consideration,  and 
gave  him  until  two  o’clock  to  shoe  the  animal  and  get 
his  dinner,  a feat  that  he  accomplished,  but  reluctantly. 
The  truth  was,  I had  some  misgivings  as  to  the  recep- 
tion my  late  patients  might  give  me  should  I meet 
any  of  them.  The  fellow  with  the  toothache,  however, 
did  discover  me  as  we  were  mounting  to  ride  away, 
and  to  my  great  astonishment  showered  blessings  upon 


Molino  del  Rey,  captured  by  American  troops  during  Mexican  War 


The  Tree  of  the  Dismal  Night,  under  which  it 
is  said  Cortez  ivept 


THE  CANYON  TRAIL 


265 


my  head.  By  some  freak  of  nature  the  tooth  had 
ceased  paining  him  shortly  after  my  “treatment,”  the 
swelling  had  left  his  face,  and  with  him,  at  least,  I 
had  won  a deathless  reputation  as  a great  medico. 

At  Canelas  the  trail  drops  down,  rather  suddenly, 
several  hundred  feet  into  a deep  box  canyon,  and  thence 
follows  the  bed  of  a river  which  flows  to  the  westward 
between  the  canyon  walls.  Only  at  infrequent  inter- 
vals was  it  possible  to  travel  at  a pace  faster  than  a 
walk.  Great  bowlders,  washed  bare  by  the  turbulent 
stream  during  the  freshet  season,  were  strewn  thickly 
from  wall  to  wall  of  the  narrow  canyon;  and  the  river, 
in  its  crooked  course,  now  swung  to  one  wall,  now  to 
the  other,  necessitating  frequent  fordings.  They  say 
that  there  are  three  hundred  and  sixty  of  these  ford- 
ings to  be  made,  and  I can  readily  believe  it.  Because 
of  the  recent  storms  and  melting  snow  above,  the  water 
was  unusually  high  for  the  season,  and  so  deep  in 
places  that  the  mules  could  scarcely  keep  their  foot- 
ing, and  we  were  constantly  wet  to  the  knees. 

Here  and  there  nature  has  scooped  out  nooks,  and 
left  small  level  plots  of  alluvial  deposit  above  high- 
water  mark.  Wherever  these  nooks  occur  one  is 
pretty  sure  to  find  primitive  little  thatched  Indian 
huts  of  bamboo,  surrounded  by  gardens  of  banana 
and  orange  trees.  Razorback  hogs  root  about  the 
huts,  and  scrawny  long-horn  cattle,  belonging  to  the 
dwellers,  pick  a living  wherever  they  can  find  it. 

These  canyon  Indians  are  extremely  polite,  never 
failing  to  touch  their  sombreros  with  a cheery  “Buenos 
dias,  senor,r  or  “Buenos  tardes,  senor,”  when  one  meets 
them.  To  the  traveller  from  Durango  and  the  east 
this  courteous  bearing  toward  the  stranger  is  par- 


266  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


ticularly  noticeable,  in  pleasing  contrast  to  the  more 
sullen  folk  of  the  higher  mountains. 

It  was  our  custom,  while  in  the  canyon,  to  halt  at 
night  at  one  of  these  Indian  huts,  where  we  were 
always  sure  of  a cordial  welcome,  and  of  being  per- 
mitted to  spread  our  bed  under  a thatched  shed, 
a protection  which  was  appreciated;  for  though  the 
days  during  this  period  of  our  journey  were  clear  and 
perfect,  showers  fell  during  the  night. 

These  are  charming  spots.  The  air  is  charged  with 
the  perfume  of  wild  flowers,  the  river  below  sings  a 
soothing  song,  the  massive  canyon  walls  meet  the  deep 
blue  heavens  a mile  above  one’s  head,  and  the  atmos- 
phere is  soft  and  balmy.  The  scenery  compares  with 
that  of  the  Royal  Gorge,  in  Colorado,  and  reminds  one 
of  it  strongly,  though  the  climatic  conditions  and  flora 
are  sub-tropical  and  offer  an  increasing  charm. 

Well  down  the  canyon  a ruined  flume  of  masonry 
was  passed.  It  must  have  been  nearly  two  miles  in 
length,  and  was  intended  to  carry  water  to  an  extensive 
mining  mill  below,  also  abandoned  and  going  to  decay. 

We  had  been  in  the  canyon  two  days  when  our  trail 
left  the  main  river  to  ascend  a smaller  stream,  and 
presently,  at  an  altitude  of  seventeen  hundred  feet, 
burst  out  into  a gently  rolling  country.  Here  flowers 
and  fruits  lined  the  well-beaten  road,  and  the  balmy 
air  was  laden  with  summer  fragrance.  This  sudden 
transition  from  rugged,  snow-capped  mountains  and 
high-walled  canyon  into  a wide  and  verdant  sub-tropi- 
cal land  is  by  no  means  one  of  the  least  pleasing 
features  of  Mexican  travel.  It  is  an  example  of  the 
contrast  of  physical  and  climatic  conditions  so  char- 
acteristic of  the  country. 


THE  CANYON  TRAIL 


267 


The  following  day  we  rode  through  a half-ruined 
village  of  the  Spanish  period  — the  first  settlement 
of  importance  since  leaving  Canelas, — and  at  half- 
past four  in  the  afternoon  dismounted  at  the  Hotel 
Cosmopolita  in  Culiacan. 

The  little  city  was  all  agog  with  preparations  for  a 
great  New  Year’s  Eve  ball,  to  be  given  in  celebration 
of  the  coming  of  the  Southern  Pacific  Railroad  exten- 
sion, which  was  to  open  Culiacan  to  the  north  during 
the  New  Year.  This  ball  was  an  invitation  affair, 
upon  which,  proud  citizens  informed  me,  more  than 
six  thousand  dollars  had  been  spent,  and  was  under 
the  patronage  of  the  Governor.  I was  honored  with 
an  invitation,  but  had  no  proper  clothing  with  me,  and, 
besides,  was  to  be  up  bright  and  early  on  New  Year’s 
Day  to  catch  the  tri-weekly  train  for  Altata,  and  there- 
fore declined. 

The  faithful  Wilkinson  came  gratuitously  to  assist 
me  in  getting  my  baggage  packed,  and  to  act  as  a self- 
elected  body  servant  until  the  very  hour  of  my  depart- 
ure from  Culiacan.  I believe  he  was  genuinely  sorry 
to  see  me  go,  as  I certainly  was  to  part  from  him,  for 
our  companionship  on  the  trail  had  been  pleasant. 

It  was  mid-afternoon  on  January  first  when  our 
slow-moving  train,  which  had  consumed  six  hours  in 
making  the  run  of  forty-seven  miles,  coughing  and  heav- 
ing like  a decrepit  old  horse,  came  to  a stop  at  the 
Altata  station. 

At  Culiacan  I had  been  informed  that  I should 
doubtless  connect,  on  the  evening  of  my  arrival  in 
Altata,  with  the  Luella,  one  of  a line  of  little  Mexican 
steamers  plying  between  Gulf  of  California  ports, 
southward  bound  to  Mazatlan.  Here,  however,  I 


268  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


learned  that  the  Luella  was  not  due  until  the  follow- 
ing day,  and  reluctantly  I took  up  my  quarters  at 
the  principal  “ hotel,”  a thatched-roof  shack  overrun 
with  big  fat  fleas,  though  serving  fairly  good  meals 
— much  better  than  one  might  expect  in  such  an 
establishment. 

During  the  evening  I sauntered  up  the  main  street 
to  buy  some  cigars.  The  town  was  filled  with  natives 
from  the  surrounding  country,  celebrating  the  holiday. 
In  front  of  the  dimly-lighted  mescal  shops  were  groups 
of  quarrelsome  men  who  had  already  partaken  too 
freely  of  liquor,  and  I was  quite  satisfied  to  return  to 
the  hotel  for  a quiet  smoke.  It  was  dark  when  I 
crossed  the  deserted  plaza,  a barren,  unlighted  stretch 
of  sand.  I had  not  gone  a dozen  yards  when  some 
one  at  my  elbow  startled  me  with  the  remark: 

“Good-evening,  sir.  It  is  not  safe  for  you  to  walk 
here  alone  after  dark,  and  I will  go  to  the  hotel  with 
you.” 

Until  I heard  the  voice  I was  not  aware  that  any 
one  was  near  me.  The  man  spoke  in  broken  English. 
In  the  dim  light  I could  not  make  out  his  features,  but 
could  see  that  he  was  somewhat  under  average  height, 
dressed  like  an  American,  and  wearing  a cap  instead 
of  the  usual  sombrero  of  the  peon.  The  cap  alone 
was  sufficient  proof  that  he  was  not  a Mexican,  though 
his  accent  was  Spanish. 

“Good-evening,”  I answered.  “Why  do  you  say  I 
am  not  safe  alone?” 

“I’ve  been  listening  to  those  half-drunken  Mexi- 
cans. They  have  been  talking  about  you,  and  saying, 
‘That  is  an  American,  and  he  has  much  money,  like 
all  Americans.’  Some  of  these  men  are  bad  men,  and 


Cairn  surmounted  by  cross  erected  by  Cortez  in  memory  of  wife  he  drowned 


A view  of  Mazatlan  harbor  - 


THE  CANYON  TRAIL 


269 


they  are  full  of  mescal,  and  they’d  stick  you  with  a 
knife  for  a peso.  You  must  not  walk  here  after  dark, 
sir.” 

“But  I have  a gun,”  I assured  him. 

“No  matter.  The  knife  would  be  in  your  back 
before  you  could  use  your  gun.  They  could  hide  in 
this  sand  and  steal  on  you  like  a cat  before  you  saw 
them.  There  may  be  men  lying  along  this  path  now 
waiting  for  you,  but  they  won’t  attack  two  of  us.” 

We  walked  to  the  hotel  together.  There  I offered 
him  a cigar,  and  we  sat  and  chatted  for  an  hour  while 
we  smoked,  and  I drew  from  him  his  history. 

His  name  was  Francisco,  a Spaniard  from  Barcelona. 
He  was  drafted  into  the  Spanish  navy  two  or  three 
years  before  the  Spanish-American  War,  and  served 
as  a machinist  until  one  day  his  vessel  entered  an 
American  port,  and  he  took  advantage  of  an  oppor- 
tunity to  desert.  This  he  felt  he  had  a moral  right  to 
do,  as  he  had  been  forced  into  the  service  against  his 
will,  and  had  received  harsh  treatment  there. 

He  worked  as  a machinist  in  Boston  until  the  out- 
break of  the  war,  when  he  secured  a berth  on  one  of 
our  transports,  which  he  held  until  peace  was  declared. 
His  life  wanderings  had  carried  him  to  the  West 
Indies,  South  America,  the  Far  East,  and  Alaska. 
He  had  visited  nearly  all  of  our  principal  cities,  remem- 
bering and  describing  accurately  the  chief  streets  and 
attractions  of  many  of  them,  from  Boston  to  San 
Francisco. 

He  had  been  employed  as  engineer  in  mines  in 
Pennsylvania,  Ohio,  Colorado,  Utah,  Nevada,  and 
California.  The  last  mine  in  which  he  worked  had 
suspended  operations  some  weeks  before  our  meeting, 


270  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


and  he  had  walked  the  hundreds  of  miles  from  Los 
Angeles  to  Altata,  by  way  of  Guaymas,  in  search  of 
employment,  and  was  now  en  route  to  the  new  rail- 
road construction  camps  at  Mazatlan,  hoping  to  find 
work  there. 

“How  are  you  off  for  money?”  I asked. 

“I’ve  used  all  I had,  sir,  and  am  broke,”  he  answered. 

I offered  him  a peso. 

“ No,  ” he  said  positively  but  politely.  ‘ ' I thank  you, 
but  I never  take  money  as  a gift.  I always  earn  my 
own  way.  I earned  enough  to  keep  me  going  until 
I reached  Culiacan.  There  a merchant  gave  me  a 
job,  and  fitted  me  out  in  this  suit  of  clothes  and  some 
good  underwear,  and  cash  enough  to  pay  my  way 
down  here.  When  I reach  Mazatlan  I ’ll  get  something 
to  do,  and  I’ll  get  on  all  right  until  then.” 

The  following  day  the  Luella  steamed  past  Altata 
without  even  speaking  the  port.  We  could  see  her 
in  the  distance.  She  had  a full  cargo  and  complement 
of  passengers  and  ignored  us  wholly.  Francisco  was 
with  me  at  the  time  and  was  keenly  disappointed,  as 
he  had  hoped  for  an  opportunity  to  work  his  passage 
on  her  to  Mazatlan.  When  this  hope  was  gone,  he 
disappeared. 

Altata  is  not  a good  place  to  tarry  in.  At  the  steam- 
ship office  they  assured  me  that  manana  the  Alamos, 
another  of  their  vessels,  would  come,  and  for  several 
days  thereafter  “manana”  was  the  star  of  hope  that 
kept  my  courage  up. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  pace  up  and  down 
the  beach  and  enjoy  the  balmy  sea  breeze,  or  lounge 
on  the  shady  side  of  the  hotel  and  read  and  reread 
the  pages  of  an  old  newspaper  which  I was  fortunate 


The  hotel  at  Alt  at  a 


The  “chambermaid  ” cook , and  waiter , Altata  hotel 


THE  CANYON  TRAIL 


271 


enough  to  possess.  A single  incident  occurred  to  dis- 
turb the  monotony.  I was  sitting  one  afternoon  in 
front  of  the  hotel,  chair  tipped  back,  eyes  half  closed, 
dreamily  contemplating  the  glimmering  white  beach, 
the  lazy  lapping  waves  below,  a picturesque  boatman 
hoisting  anchor  and  getting  under  sail,  and  the  dis- 
tant haze  that  hovered  over  the  Gulf,  when  I was 
startled  into  activity  by  the  sudden  appearance  of 
Ricardo,  our  waiter  boy,  shouting  excitedly  in  Spanish 
to  two  passing  boatmen: 

‘‘Come!  Come  quick!  Jose  is  killing  Enriqueta!” 

Jos6,  a big,  burly  fellow  who  acted  as  “chamber- 
maid” and  general  chore  man,  was  usually  very  in- 
offensive, and  heretofore,  I had  observed,  seemed  on 
very  good  terms  with  Enriqueta,  the  cook.  The  two 
men,  Ricardo,  and  myself  rushed  to  the  rear  bent  upon 
foiling  a foul  murderer,  if  we  were  not  already  too 
late.  There  we  found  Enriqueta  in  a corner,  and  Jose, 
fighting  drunk,  threatening  her  with  instant  and  hor- 
rible death  and  offering  to  annihilate  Altata  and  all 
the  surrounding  country.  We  put  him  down,  tied 
his  arms  and  legs,  and  laid  him  in  a quiet  corner  to 
sleep  himself  into  a milder  mood. 

But  everything  has  an  ending,  and  one  day  the 
Alamos  actually  did  arrive,  when  I had  begun  to  think 
her  a mythical  ship  of  manana.  No  time  was  lost 
in  getting  aboard,  for  I half  feared  that,  after  all,  the 
Alamos  might  prove  to  be  a phantom  vessel  and  dis- 
solve into  thin  air.  Her  decks  were  very  substantial, 
however,  when  I found  myself  upon  them.  In  an 
hour  we  were  steaming  southward,  and  early  the  next 
morning  rounded  Cerro  del  Creston  and  came  to  anchor 
in  the  picturesque  harbor  of  Mazatlan. 


CHAPTER  XXX 


MAZATLAN  AND  HOMEWARD  BOUND 

MAZATLAN,  with  a population  of  twenty  thou- 
sand, is  not  only  the  largest  city  in  Sina- 
loa, but  the  metropolis  of  Pacific  Mexico. 
There  are  several  hotels  here,  and  one  of  them,  the 
Hotel  Central,  whose  proprietor  learned  the  art  of 
hotel  management  in  California,  is  a very  comfortable 
hostelry,  perhaps  the  best  west  of  the  Sierra  Madres. 
This  I made  my  domicile  during  my  stay,  taking 
advantage  also  of  the  hospitality  of  the  American 
Club. 

The  Hotel  Central  has  a bathroom.  A bathroom  is 
a luxury  in  Western  Mexico,  where  ordinary  zinc  bath 
tubs  cost  four  hundred  dollars,  and  cast-iron  plumbing 
pipe  forty-four  cents  a foot.  This  bathroom  in  the 
Hotel  Central  was  supplied  with  both  hot  and  cold 
water.  All  of  life’s  pleasures  are  measured  by  con- 
trast, and  after  my  enforced  residence  in  Altata,  the 
Hotel  Central,  with  its  bath  tub,  stood  out  in  marked 
and  pleasing  contrast  to  my  recent  experiences.  I 
revelled  in  warm  suds,  followed  by  a cold  spray,  and 
clean,  fresh  undergarments,  then  I went  to  bed  for  an 
hour  while  my  only  suit  of  conventional  clothes  was 
being  pressed. 

Normally  cleansed  and  clothed,  I paid  my  respects 
to  Mr.  Louis  Kaiser,  the  United  States  Consul.  Mr. 
Kaiser  remembered  my  former  visit  and  welcomed  me 

272 


HOMEWARD  BOUND 


273 


most  cordially  and  heartily.  He  extended  many  cour- 
tesies to  me,  placed  much  valuable  data  at  my  disposal, 
and  exerted  himself  in  many  ways  to  make  my  stay  in 
Mazatlan  both  pleasant  and  profitable. 

A boom  was  in  progress  in  Mazatlan  at  this  time, 
induced  by  the  prospect  of  early  railroad  communica- 
tion with  the  north.  The  Cananea,  Rio  Yaqui,  and 
Pacific  Railroad,  the  extension  of  the  Southern  Pacific 
System  before  mentioned,  had  established  extensive 
construction  camps  some  three  or  four  miles  back 
of  the  town,  and  these  camps  drew  a large  number 
of  Americans, — not  only  men  actually  engaged  in  the 
work,  but  also  hangers-on  and  tramps.  These  latter 
would  not  accept  employment,  and  spent  their  time 
loafing  around  saloons,  constantly  becoming  embroiled 
in  fights  and  other  disturbances,  to  the  disgrace  of 
their  peaceably  inclined  fellow-citizens.  It  was  very 
annoying  to  be  told  every  day  that  an  “ Americano” 
had  been  arrested  for  stealing,  or  committing  some 
even  worse  breach  of  the  law.  In  justice  let  it  be  said, 
however,  that  every  foreigner  of  this  character,  no 
matter  what  the  land  of  his  nativity,  was  accredited 
as  an  American. 

The  day  following  my  arrival  I visited  the  camps 
and  introduced  myself  to  Mr.  D.  E.  H.  Manigault,  the 
engineer  in  charge.  He  received  me  cordially,  enter- 
tained me  at  dinner  in  the  tent  where  he  had  estab- 
lished a temporary  home,  and  was  good  enough  to 
show  me  over  the  grounds.  The  organization  was  per- 
fect, and  the  work  was  being  pushed  with  the  utmost 
energy.  Much  of  the  grading  had  been  completed 
both  north  and  south,  and  large  gangs  of  native  work- 
men, superintended  by  Americans,  were  laying  ties 


274  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


and  rails  with  a rapidity  that  was  marvellous.  Many 
buildings  and  tents  had  been  erected  for  the  accom- 
modation and  comfort  of  the  workmen,  one  of  the  tents 
a well-equipped  hospital.  The  railroad  is  now,  I am 
informed,  in  full  operation  to  this  point,  and  to-day 
one  may  board  a Pullman  car  in  Los  Angeles,  Cali- 
fornia, and  be  set  down  at  Mazatlan  without  change. 

In  spite  of  the  city’s  importance,  this  is  the  first 
railway  communication  it  has  ever  had.  In  this 
connection,  perhaps  it  is  worth  while  to  mention  an 
erroneous  statement  appearing  in  a voluminous  and 
presumably  authoritative  work  on  Mexico,  published 
in  1907,  in  which  the  author  states:  “ Mazatlan,  in 
the  State  of  Sinaloa,  is  more  fortunately  placed,  since 
there  are  two  lines  of  railway  running  from  the  port 
into  the  interior,  but  neither  as  yet  communicating 
with  the  Capital.” 

There  are  no  such  lines  of  railway  here.  A survey 
was  once  made  for  a proposed  railroad  to  connect 
Mazatlan  and  Durango,  but  the  engineers  found  the 
grades  too  steep  to  negotiate,  and  no  actual  construc- 
tion work  was  ever  done  upon  the  line. 

Unfortunately  for  Mazatlan,  its  harbor  offers  no 
shelter  to  shipping,  and  therefore,  during  heavy 
weather,  it  had  sometimes  been  shut  off  for  consider- 
able periods  from  sea  communication.  A plan  for 
building  a safe  harbor,  to  cost  between  six  and  seven 
million  pesos,  has  been  approved  by  President  Diaz, 
and  it  is  hoped  that  the  work  will  be  begun  shortly. 
The  annual  exports  from  this  port  to  San  Francisco 
alone  amount  to  $3,000,000  United  States  gold,  and 
its  imports  to  upwards  of  $1,500,000.  This  does  not 
take  into  account  the  large  additional  coastwise  trade. 


The  field  hospital,  Mazatlan 


A view  of  Mazatlan 


HOMEWARD  BOUND 


275 


There  is  an  excellent  opportunity  here  for  Ameri- 
cans with  limited  capital  to  enter  into  business  with 
profits  large  and  certain.  For  instance,  there  is  not 
a retail  shoe  store  in  the  city,  though  there  is  a strong 
demand  for  one.  Germans  at  present  enjoy  a large 
share  of  the  retail  trade. 

There  is  a cigarette  factory  and  a shoe  factory  in 
Mazatlan,  but  practically  no  other  manufacturing  of 
any  kind,  though  the  surrounding  country  presents 
unusual  opportunities  for  a variety  of  enterprises. 
One  of  many  lines  that  might  be  entered  upon  profit- 
ably is  the  canning  of  food  products.  Fruits  and  vege- 
tables might  be  had  at  very  low  cost,  labor  is  cheap, 
and  Europe,  if  not  the  United  States,  offers  a ready 
market.  In  Tepic  Territory,  to  the  south,  on  the 
Hacienda  San  Nicolas,  thousands  of  pineapples  go  to 
waste  every  year  because  of  no  present  means  of 
utilizing  them.  The  new  railroad  is  to  pass  through 
the  heart  of  this  rich  agricultural  region.  Those 
desiring  information  on  the  subject  should  communi- 
cate with  the  American  Consul  at  Mazatlan. 

A new  sewer  system  had  been  established  in  Mazat- 
lan, and  this,  together  with  other  sanitary  improve- 
ments introduced  by  the  authorities,  should  make  the 
city  as  healthful  as  nearly  any  of  our  own  Southern 
cities.  In  1902  and  1903  the  population,  then  18,000, 
was  reduced  to  4,000  by  an  epidemic  of  bubonic  plague, 
and  upward  of  one  thousand  houses  were  burned  to 
stay  the  plague’s  progress.  This,  however,  was  due 
to  unusual  circumstances,  and  it  is  highly  improb- 
able that  it  will  ever  be  repeated.  The  new  sanitary 
reforms  and  a strict,  though  sometimes  illogical, 
quarantine  are  sufficient  insurance  against  it. 


276  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


While  I was  in  Mazatlan  an  unfortunate  shooting 
incident  occurred  at  the  railroad  camps.  An  Ameri- 
can foreman  of  a construction  gang  discharged  two 
Mexican  workmen.  The  following  day  the  two,  more 
or  less  under  the  influence  of  mescal,  returned  and 
attempted  to  resume  work.  The  foreman  ordered 
them  away,  and  one  of  them  drew  his  revolver  on  the 
foreman,  who  grappled  with  the  fellow  and  endeavored 
to  disarm  him.  The  other  Mexican  at  this  point  took 
part  in  the  affair,  attempting  to  hold  the  foreman  that 
the  other  might  use  his  revolver.  An  American  time- 
keeper witnessing  the  struggle  ran  to  his  tent,  secured 
a rifle,  and  shot  both  Mexicans  dead.  The  timekeeper 
was  languishing  in  jail  when  I left,  and  the  Mazatlan 
papers  were  endeavoring  to  create  a sentiment  against 
him,  and  a sympathy  for  the  dead  Mexicans,  both 
of  them  admittedly  worthless  vagabonds. 

The  day  I visited  the  construction  camps  I met,  most 
unexpectedly,  my  friend  Francisco.  He  had  walked 
a part  of  the  way  from  Altata,  when  he  overtook 
the  stage-coach  stuck  fast  in  a muddy  stream.  As 
recompense  for  assisting  the  driver  to  free  the  vehicle, 
he  was  given  passage  to  Mazatlan.  I had  the  satis- 
faction of  learning  before  I sailed  that  he  had  found 
work  at  the  railroad  machine  shops. 

On  the  morning  of  January  eighteenth,  the  Pacific 
Mail  steamship  City  of  Sydney,  northward  bound  to  San 
Francisco,  came  to  anchor  in  the  harbor.  My  work 
was  finished.  I bade  good-bye  to  my  friends  and  went 
aboard,  glad  to  be  homeward  bound  at  last,  but  carry- 
ing with  me  many  pleasant  memories  of  the  wonder- 
ful land  of  fruits  and  flowers  beyond  the  Mexican 
Sierras. 


APPENDIX 


APPENDIX 

Mexico’s  unhunted  wilderness 

IN  the  course  of  my  mule-back  journey  of  upwards 
of  a thousand  miles  through  the  lowland  and 
mountain  wilderness  of  Western  Mexico,  I was 
constantly  impressed  by  the  manifold  attractions  that 
the  country  holds  for  sportsmen.  With  every  new 
trail  I traversed  these  attractions  seemingly  increased. 
The  lagunas  and  marshes  near  the  coast  were  alive 
with  snipe,  curlew,  and  many  varieties  of  wild  duck. 
Ascending  the  valley  of  the  Rio  Santiago  huge  alliga- 
tors were  seen,  basking  in  the  sun  on  every  sandy 
reach  along  the  river-bank.  Coveys  of  quail  rose 
before  us.  Deer  scampered  away  as  we  approached 
their  feeding  trysts  by  the  brooksides.  Pheasants 
and  wild  turkeys  fed  in  the  foothills,  and  in  mountain 
and  jungle  lurked  big  game  animals,  as  was  evidenced 
by  numerous  signs. 

I was  also  impressed  by  the  fact  that  our  sportsmen 
are  rarely  if  ever  seen  in  this  part  of  Mexico.  Why 
this  is  so,  I cannot  say.  One  reason,  possibly,  is  lack 
of  information  as  to  existing  conditions;  and  many 
doubtless  hesitate  upon  the  erroneous  assumption 
that  all  Mexico  is  an  unhealthful  country  sweltering 
under  a tropical  sun,  and  infested  by  venomous  insects 
and  reptiles.  The  fact  is,  the  average  citizen  of  the 
United  States  knows  less  about  Mexico  than  he  does 
about  Africa.  I must  admit  that  I had  some  exceed- 

279 


280  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


ingly  distorted  notions  of  the  country  and  its  govern- 
ment before  I visited  it,  and  many  preconceived 
opinions  to  revise. 

To  the  sportsman  who  can  spare  but  a few  weeks 
each  year  in  which  to  seek  relief  in  the  wilderness, 
the  ideal  hunting-ground  possesses  six  prime  charac- 
teristics. First,  it  must  be  well  stocked  with  a variety 
of  game;  second,  a secluded  section  shut  out  so  far 
as  possible  from  civilization  and  the  haunts  of  other 
hunters;  third,  a place  easily  accessible  and  quickly 
reached;  fourth,  it  should  be  set  in  impressive  and 
varied  scenery;  fifth,  a climate  suited  to  individual 
taste;  sixth,  not  too  expensive  in  point  of  guides, 
transportation,  and  incidentals.  This  refers  to  the 
general  sportsman,  and  not  to  him  who  wishes  to 
secure  some  particular  species  to  add  to  his  trophies. 
The  latter  must  be  willing  to  make  sacrifice. 

It  is  necessary  here  to  emphasize  the  fact  that 
Mexico  is  a L.g  country.  We  Americans  have  a way 
of  looking  upon  it  as  just  a little  patch  tagged  onto 
Texas.  It  is  very  much  larger  than  Alaska,  and  a 
quarter  as  large  as  the  whole  United  States. 

It  may  be  said  that  every  species  of  game  animal 
found  on  the  North  American  Continent  south  of  the 
fiftieth  parallel  of  north  latitude,  except  moose, 
caribou,  and  elk,  is  found  here.  The  silver-tip  bear 
ranges  all  through  the  high  Sierra  Madres,  wherever 
there  is  a good  feeding-ground;  and  wherever  there 
are  grizzlies,  one  may  expect  also  the  huge  cinnamon 
bear,  the  grizzly’s  close  neighbor.  The  common 
brown  bear  is  not  so  numerous,  but  the  black  bear 
is  quite  plentiful.  The  white-faced  bear  is  more  rare, 
though  it  is  sometimes  found  in  the  coastal  mountains. 


MEXICO’S  UNHUNTED  WILDERNESS  281 


I could  not  learn  that  this  species  had  ever  been  seen 
in  the  Sierras  Madres. 

The  higher  mountains  at  all  elevations,  and  even 
the  lower  foothills,  abound  with  white-tail  deer.  On 
the  Pacific  side  they  are  numerous  almost  to  the  coast. 
I saw  them  just  outside  the  city  of  Culiacan.  They 
are  very  plentiful  in  Tepic  Territory,  and  I can  vouch 
from  personal  experience  for  the  quality  of  their 
venison.  At  many  mountain  cabins  where  I stopped 
they  were  household  pets,  having  been  taken  as  fawns 
and  raised  by  the  children.  The  mule,  burro,  or  black- 
tail  inhabits  portions  of  the  States  of  Chihuahua, 
Coahuila,  and  Sonora;  and  in  this  section  are  found 
also  mountain  sheep. 

The  mountain  lion  lurks  in  all  the  high  country, 
and  along  with  him  is  sometimes  found,  but  more 
seldom  killed,  the  American  panther.  All  the  Ameri- 
can great  cats,  in  fact,  inhabit  both  the  Pacific  and 
Gulf  coasts  and  foothills.  The  small  American  leopard 
is  very  numerous  all  along  the  hot  country  coasts; 
and  the  Mexican  jaguar,  known  locally  by  foreigners 
as  the  tiger,  preys  upon  cattle  and  ranch  animals 
to  such  a degree  as  to  be  very  much  of  a nuisance. 
Riding  one  day  on  the  Hacienda  San  Nicolas,  in 
Tepic  Territory,  with  Serapio,  the  head  mozo,  an 
Americanized  Mexican,  I remarked  a mule  without 
ears. 

“How  did  the  mule  lose  his  ears,  Serapio?”  I asked. 

“Th’  tiger  he  get-a  th’  ear,”  answered  Serapio. 
“Sometime  he  get-a  th’  mule,  he  get-a  th’  calf,  he 
get-a  th’  pig.  He  damn  bad!  He  too  damn  many!” 

There  are  some  timber  wolves,  but  they  are  not 
dangerous.  The  one  animal  that  really  is  dangerous 


282  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


is  the  javalin,  or  Mexican  wild  boar.  They  run  in  large 
bands,  and  will  kill  both  man  and  horse.  If  one  of 
them  is  wounded,  the  whole  band  will  turn  upon  the 
hunter,  and  woe  to  him  if  he  has  not  provided  for 
escape  or  safety ! The  javalin  is  very  numerous  in  some 
sections,  but  if  not  molested  is  not  likely  to  attack. 

The  noblest  game  bird  of  the  world,  the  wild  turkey, 
is  plentiful  throughout  the  Sierra  Madres  wherever 
its  food  is  to  be  found,  which  is  nearly  everywhere, 
and  grows  to  immense  size.  Grouse  and  pheasants 
inhabit  the  foothills  in  considerable  abundance.  The 
small  valley  quail,  the  fool  quail,  and  the  large  moun- 
tain quail  are  common.  I saw  a few  wild  pigeons, 
and  was  told  that  at  times  there  were  a good  many 
of  them. 

It  was  my  good  fortune,  while  at  Mazatlan,  to  accom- 
pany Mr.  J.  Cadman,  an  American  sportsman  who  was 
temporarily  residing  there,  upon  a half-day’s  hunting 
trip  for  duck  and  snipe.  This  was  on  January  fourteen 
— mid-winter  — with  the  delightful  weather  charac- 
teristic of  the  climate  at  this  season,  — clear  and  fine 
and  not  so  warm  as  to  make  walking  uncomfortable. 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  town  we  engaged  three 
native  boys  to  act  as  retrievers,  and  a half-hour’s 
moderate  walking  brought  us  to  the  game  ground. 
This  was  a wide,  flat  country,  interspersed  with  marshes 
and  small  ponds,  and  an  ideal  feeding-place,  where 
wild  rice,  celery,  and  fine  grass  grew  in  abundance. 
Mr.  Cadman  had  promised  to  show  me  the  greatest 
variety  and  quantity  of  birds  I had  ever  seen  in  an 
equal  area.  My  expectations  ran  high,  and  I was 
not  disappointed.  Everywhere  were  ducks  and  ducks 
and  ducks,  curlew,  snipe,  and  rails. 


MEXICO’S  UNHUNTED  WILDERNESS  283 


I was  armed  with  a camera,  while  Cadman  carried 
a double-barrelled  shotgun.  No  bird  was  fired  upon 
until  it  took  to  the  wing.  When  game  was  brought 
down,  our  human  retrievers,  stripped  naked,  recovered 
it,  plunging  into  the  ponds  like  well-trained  dogs, 
save  in  three  or  four  instances  where  alligators,  they 
alleged,  lay  in  waiting  for  such  delicate  morsels  as 
Mexican  youngsters,  and  in  these  cases  we  lost  our 
birds.  Ours  was  rather  a seeing  than  a shooting 
tour,  and  no  attempt  was  made  to  kill  beyond  speci- 
mens of  different  varieties.  We  were  absent  from 
the  American  Consulate  about  three  hours,  and  our 
bag  totalled  the  following  ducks:  two  blue-bells,  two 
spoon-bills,  two  mallards,  one  green-winged  teal,  and 
one  blue-winged  teal.  In  addition  to  these  we  secured 
some  jacksnipe,  curlew,  and  Virginia  rail.  I mention 
this  incident  merely  to  show  the  sporting  possibilities 
of  the  neighborhood. 

Mr.  Cadman  informed  me  that  in  the  course  of  his 
hunting  expeditions  over  this  ground  he  had  found 
the  following  varieties  of  water  fowl  and  other  game 
birds:  green- wing  teal,  blue-wing  teal,  sprig,  widgeon, 
red-head,  mallard,  blue-bell,  gray  curlew,  black  cur- 
lew, plover,  sand  snipe,  three  varieties  of  quail,  pigeons 
in  large  numbers,  and  not  far  from  Mazatlan  wild 
turkeys  and  grouse.  “I  was  much  surprised,”  said 
he,  “to  find  upon  investigation  several  ideal  spots 
for  Wilson  or  jacksnipe,  and  to  find  the  birds  in  large 
numbers.” 

It  may  be  said  that  Mr.  Cadman  was  at  that  time, 
and  probably  is  to-day,  the  only  sportsman  hunting 
in  this  locality.  Natives  rarely  hunt  anywhere  in 
Mexico,  save  in  the  vicinity  of  Mexico  City  where  I 


284  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


found  them  with  batteries  of  guns  set  up,  slaughtering 
ducks  by  the  thousand  for  market;  and  near  some  of 
the  other  larger  eastern  cities  which  offered  good 
markets  for  game. 

What  I have  said  about  game  birds  round  about 
Mazatlan  applies  to  all  the  Pacific  lowland  coast. 
In  the  lagunas  near  Mexcaltatan,  between  San  Bias 
and  Mazatlan,  I saw  myriads  and  myriads  of  ducks 
and  other  water  fowl.  Shots  from  our  revolvers 
started  numberless  flocks  of  them.  I was  told  that 
later  in  the  season  wild  geese  were  very  plentiful,  but 
personally  I saw  none. 

All  of  the  rivers  and  creeks  of  Southern  Sinaloa  and 
Tepic  are  well  stocked  with  alligators.  I was  assured 
that  there  were  crocodiles  also  in  the  Rio  Santiago, 
but  saw  none  of  these  myself,  and  cannot  vouch  for 
the  statement. 

From  Mr.  Boon  Barker,  representing  the  National 
Lines  Railroad  at  Tepehuanes,  I obtained  much  val- 
uable information.  Mr.  Barker  is  an  enthusiastic 
hunter  and  thorough  sportsman.  He  has  lived  in 
Mexico  for  many  years,  and  his  experience  extends 
over  a wide  range  of  country,  from  the  northwestern 
United  States  to  middle-southern  Mexico.  He  has 
killed  nearly  every  species  of  animal  known  in  this 
vast  territory.  As  adept  in  woodcraft  and  animal 
lore  as  an  Indian,  he  never  uses  dogs  or  guides,  but 
pits  his  own  skill  against  that  of  the  animal  he  hunts. 
Naturally  our  conversation  turned  to  the  subject,  and 
the  best  localities  in  which  to  find  the  various  species 
of  game  in  Mexico. 

“It  is  a mystery  to  me,”  said  he,  “why  our  people 
of  the  East  do  not  occasionally  vary  their  hunting 


MEXICO’S  UNHUNTED  WILDERNESS  285 


trips  by  coming  to  the  Sierra  Madres,  instead  of  going 
repeatedly,  year  after  year,  to  Canada  or  the  north- 
western United  States.  But  they  rarely  do.  The 
fact  is  that  this  whole  range  of  mountains,  hundreds 
of  miles  in  length,  is  practically  never  visited  by 
hunters,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  abounds  in  a great 
variety  of  game.  Why,  almost  anywhere  one  can 
reach,  within  a few  hours  of  the  railroad,  mountain 
fastnesses  that  have  never  been  trod  by  man,  where 
deer  abound,  and  where  the  hunter  is  pretty  sure  to 
get  bear,  and  has  a good  chance  at  other  big  game, 
besides  as  many  turkeys  as  he  wants.  He  may  pitch 
his  tent  at  altitudes  ranging  from  five  to  ten  thousand 
feet  in  solitudes  where  none  will  disturb  him,  free  dur- 
ing the  winter  months  from  mosquitoes,  flies,  and  all 
kinds  of  pests,  with  plenty  of  the  purest,  coldest  water, 
an  abundance  of  wood,  and  a perfect  climate.  There 
is  temperature  to  suit  any  fancy.  At  eight  or  ten 
thousand  feet  the  air  is  delightfully  cool  in  August  and 
September,  while  in  October  and  November  frost 
comes,  and  sometimes  snow.  October  and  November 
are  the  best  hunting  months,  for  then  the  game  is 
in  prime  condition,  turkeys  well  matured,  and  bear  still 
abroad. 

"Hardly  a week  passes,”  he  continued,  “that  I do 
not  go  out  with  my  rifle.  My  hunting  in  Mexico  has 
been  confined  to  the  States  of  Nuevo  Leon,  Tamauli- 
pas,  Durango,  Chihuahua,  Coahuila,  and  Sonora. 
During  the  last  fifteen  years  I have  hunted  over  them 
almost  constantly,  and  can  speak  of  my  own  certain 
knowledge  in  reference  to  them.  They  are  all  of  them 
filled  with  game,  but  I would  suggest  for  prospective 
hunters  the  country  west  of  Durango  City.  Animals 


286  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


and  men  can  be  hired  there,  and  outfits  purchased, 
and  ten  to  fifteen  hours  on  mule-back  from  Durango 
will  take  the  hunters  into  a splendid  country  for  a 
great  variety  of  big  game.  I would  like  to  see  some 
of  our  sportsmen  come  down.  They  would  come  again. 
It  would  be  not  only  a hunting  trip,  but  afford  an 
opportunity  to  see  some  of  the  wildest  and  most  pic- 
turesque country  on  the  continent. 

“It  is  inexpensive  hunting  in  Mexico.  There  is 
no  license  to  pay,  and  men  and  animals  can  be  hired 
at  almost  any  place  at  fifty  cents  gold  for  each  per  day. 
You  may  say  that  I shall  be  very  glad  to  answer 
sportmen’s  letters  respecting  the  country,  and  advise 
them  as  to  outfitting  and  hunting  localities.  I’m 
keen  on  the  sport  myself,  and  you  know  we  ’re  a sort 
of  fraternity.”  * 

The  one  trophy  that  Mr.  Barker  has  failed  to  secure 
is  the  mountain  lion.  “I’ve  sat  for  many  hours  at  a 
stretch  on  different  occasions,”  said  he,  “to  watch  for 
a mountain  lion  to  return  for  the  carcass  of  a deer  it 
had  pulled  down,  but  always  failed.” 

Mr.  Barker  learned  to  hunt  with  our  Western  Indians, 
spending  his  youth  and  early  manhood  among  them. 
His  long  and  continued  experience,  coupled  with  the 
fact  that  throughout  his  life  he  has  been  a close  student 
of  the  habits  of  animals  and  ways  of  the  wilderness, 
make  him  an  unusually  expert  hunter.  If  he  cannot, 
therefore,  get  the  mountain  lion  without  dogs,  no  ordi- 
nary sportsman  could  hope  to  do  so.  I would,  there- 
fore, suggest  that  those  desiring  to  secure  mountain  lion 
or  the  jaguar,  or  even  to  make  a certainty  of  getting 
the  larger  bears,  take  dogs.  In  most  cases  these  can 

* Address  Mr.  Boon  Barker,  Tepehuanes,  Durango,  Mexico. 


MEXICO'S  UNHUNTED  WILDERNESS  287 


be  had,  through  the  men  employed,  at  a nominal  cost, 
if  any  charge  at  all  is  made. 

Mr.  Caryl  Davis  Haskins,  a well-known  business 
man  and  sportsman  of  New  York  State,  has  made 
several  very  satisfactory  hunting  trips  into  the  Sierra 
Madres  west  of  the  town  of  Casas  Grandes,  Chihuahua, 
extending  his  expeditions  across  the  State  line  into 
Sonora.  His  statements,  like  those  of  Mr.  Barker, 
may  be  absolutely  relied  upon,  and  I quote  from  a 
letter  which  he  wrote  me  descriptive  of  this  section: 

“The  mountains  here  range  from  seven  to  nine  thousand 
feet,  and  are  extremely  broken  and  difficult;  fairly  well 
timbered,  considering  the  region,  with  water  sufficiently 
plentiful,  which  is  not  the  case  on  the  tableland  at  the  foot 
of  the  immediate  mountains. 

“The  game  is  very  plentiful,  from  the  food  standpoint, 
especially  deer.  You  can  shoot  all  the  deer  that  you  want 
or  need  at  any  time.  They  are  not  our  deer,  but  the 
Arizona  dwarf  deer,  the  rarest  of  the  American  Cervidce. 
A good  buck  will  not  weigh  more  than  about  seventy-five 
or  eighty  pounds. 

“The  peccary,  or  javalin,  is  numerous,  but  you  do  not 
see  specimens  often.  They  run  in  large  bands,  and  I think 
are  the  most  dangerous  of  American  game.  If  you  see  one 
you  will  see  a great  many,  but  I have  never  yet  seen  one, 
although  I have  found  their  tracks  plentifully. 

“Bear,  both  silver-tip  and  cinnamon,  are  reasonably 
plentiful,  but  except  by  accident  are  impossible  to  get  at 
unless  you  have  dogs.  You  see  their  tracks,  however,  in 
great  numbers. 

“The  puma  is  also  very  common,  and  the  jaguar  occurs, 
but  not  plentifully.  I have,  however,  seen  their  tracks. 
There  are  three  other  cats,  the  Mexican  spotted  lynx,  a 
little  long-tailed  tree  cat,  and  a very  small  grass  cat,  neither 
of  which  latter  are  you  likely  to  see.  However,  I do  not 
think  they  are  rare.  The  Mexican  fox  is  quite  common, 


288  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


the  raccoon  is  common,  and  turkeys  are  plentiful.  Two 
varieties  of  quail  are  plentiful,  and  a little  south  of  where  I 
was  there  are  considerable  numbers  of  wild  cattle  which 
have  probably  existed  in  the  wild  state  in  these  mountains 
for  not  less  than  one  hundred  years. 

“This  is  about  all,  except  for  an  occasional  timber  wolf, 
and  an  occasional  prairie  wolf  strayed  up  into  the  timber. 
There  are  also  otter  in  the  streams,  and  a few  duck.  All 
the  larger  mountain  streams  have  trout,  but  not  plentifully.” 

Generally  speaking,  Mexico  does  not  offer  many 
good  trout  brooks.  In  the  State  of  Durango  there 
are  one  or  two,  and  on  the  trail  between  Mazatlan 
and  Durango  City  there  is  one  said  to  contain  a new 
species  of  trout.  The  sportsman  cannot,  however, 
hope  for  much  in  this  direction.  Of  the  many  moun- 
tain streams  that  I crossed  and  visited  I found  trout 
in  but  one,  and  not  many  of  them  there.  But  along 
the  coast  there  is  excellent  sport  to  be  had  with  the 
rod.  The  sea  waters  swarm  with  fish. 

What  I have  said,  I trust  will  be  sufficient  to  give 
an  insight  into  the  character  of  Mexican  hunting- 
grounds,  and  in  a general  way  prove  a guide  to  some 
of  the  best  and  most  available  localities. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  a country  offering 
so  many  varieties  of  climate  within  a few  miles’  space 
as  Mexico.  Rising  gently  from  the  sea,  a compara- 
tively level  strip  of  land  averaging  about  eighty  miles 
in  breadth  lies  between  the  Pacific  Ocean  and  the 
western  wall  of  the  Sierra  Madres,  where  the  moun- 
tains tower  in  abrupt  and  awe-inspiring  grandeur. 
Along  the  sea  are  the  marshes  and  the  lagunas,  above 
is  the  jungle,  quickly  giving  way  to  a less  verdant 
growth.  Everywhere  here  are  flowers,  song  birds, 
and  brilliant-hued  parrots  and  parrakeets  — a wonder- 


MEXICO’S  UNHUNTED  WILDERNESS  289 


ful  world  of  color,  sweet  perfumes,  and  unfamiliar 
things. 

In  this  narrow  strip  it  is  naturally  exceedingly  warm 
during  the  summer  period,  which  is  also  the  rainy 
season;  but  as  one  approaches  the  Tropic  of  Cancer 
the  temperature  becomes  more  bearable.  At  Mazatlan 
and  northward  from  November  to  April  the  nights 
are  not  oppressive.  Throughout  mid-winter  the  days 
are  delightful  and  balmy,  and  a blanket  is  needed  on 
the  bed  at  night.  At  Culiacan,  during  eight  months 
of  the  year  one  finds  an  almost  ideal  climate. 

With  the  rise  into  the  mountains  a rapid  and  marked 
change  takes  place  both  in  the  flora  and  the  tempera- 
ture. Tropical  plants  and  trees  give  way  to  those  of 
the  temperate  zone,  until  finally  the  great  primordial 
forest  of  pine  is  reached,  stretching  away  in  limitless 
boundaries  over  the  peaks.  Here,  at  varying  altitudes 
of  from  six  thousand  to  eleven  thousand  feet,  the  air, 
laden  with  the  scent  of  pine  needles,  is  cool  and  invig- 
orating. Crisp  hoar  frost  crackles  under  one’s  feet 
on  winter  mornings,  and  now  and  again  snow  falls 
to  a depth  of  several  inches.  Mighty  canyons,  rush- 
ing streams,  spray-enveloped  cataracts  whose  floods 
fall  into  unknown  depths,  towering  peaks,  fantastic 
rock  formations  — scenery  beyond  compare  — are 
characteristic,  but  never  grow  commonplace. 

Continuing  over  the  mountains  to  the  eastward, 
one  reaches  the  elevated  plateau  with  its  wide  stretches 
of  arid  and  semi-arid  land,  but  with  a temperate  and 
all  but  perfect  climate. 

All  this  variety  may  be  experienced  within  a week 
on  mule-back.  Indeed,  a few  hours  will  carry  one  from 
one  extreme  to  the  other.  My  journey  from  Culiacan 


290  BEYOND  THE  MEXICAN  SIERRAS 


carried  me  through  all  the  changes,  and  over  some  of 
the  wildest  and  most  picturesque  country  in  the  world. 
Normally  this  is  a five  days’  trip,  but  in  November  I 
encountered  snow  in  the  higher  altitudes,  my  guide  lost 
the  trail  in  the  forest,  and  I was  somewhat  delayed. 

The  best  season  for  Northern  sportsmen  to  visit 
the  country  is  early  autumn  and  winter  — any  time 
after  September  fifteenth  for  the  high  altitudes,  and 
after  the  first  of  November  in  the  low  country.  Such 
a visit  would  be  a revelation  to  wilderness  lovers,  and 
would  be  worth  considerable  sacrifice. 

Sonora  is  the  only  State  in  the  Republic  that  re- 
stricts the  importation  of  firearms.  These  restrictions 
were  established  during  the  Yaqui  insurrection,  to 
prevent  the  Indians  securing  weapons.  Other  States 
permit  sportsmen  to  bring  in  one  rifle  and  one  hundred 
rounds  of  ammunition  free  of  dutjq  and  no  question 
is  raised  as  to  revolvers.  In  fact,  it  is  the  fashion, 
outside  of  the  towns,  in  all  remote  districts,  for  the 
traveller  to  wear  a belt  of  cartridges  and  a gun,  or  so 
it  was  wherever  I travelled. 

There  are  no  game  laws,  and  no  restrictions  of  any 
sort  are  laid  upon  either  season  or  kind  of  game  killed. 
I say  this  in  the  confidence  that  no  sportsman  will 
overstep  the  unwritten  law  of  the  woods,  which  pro- 
hibits the  killing  of  does,  mother  birds  in  the  brooding 
season,  or  a greater  number  of  any  animal  than  can 
be  utilized  without  waste.  The  true  gentleman  of  the 
wilderness  will  need  no  warning;  but  should  there 
still  be  living  one  of  the  “game  hog”  class,  I would 
say  a word  for  his  benefit.  The  old  saying,  “Murder 
will  out,”  applies  to-day  to  the  remotest  wilderness, 
and  excessive  slaughter  of  game  will  surely  be  found 


MEXICO’S  UNHUNTED  WILDERNESS  291 


out,  and  the  trespasser  as  surely  punished  by  the  con- 
tempt of  sportsmen  and  by  exclusion  from  association 
with  them.  Sometime  ago  an  American  resident  of 
Durango  City  went  into  the  mountains  camping  with 
a party  consisting  of  his  family  and  a lady  visitor,  and 
in  one  day  slaughtered  sixteen  deer.  He  was  so  proud 
of  his  achievement  that  he  wrote  of  it  to  the  editor 
of  one  of  our  New  York  sporting  monthlies.  The  edi- 
tor published  the  letter,  and  appended  some  caustic 
remarks.  When  the  American  read  these  remarks 
he  saw  himself  in  a new  light,  and  wrote  another 
letter  to  the  mazagine  in  which  he  stated  there  were 
eight  in  his  party,  and  that  the  sixteen  deer  repre- 
sented the  hunt  of  the  whole  party.  I talked  with 
the  lady  guest,  and  she  assured  me  the  eight  members 
of  the  party  consisted  of  the  American,  his  wife  and 
three  small  children,  herself,  and  two  mozos.  The 
American  did  actually  kill  the  sixteen  deer  himself, 
and  only  parts  of  two  of  the  animals  were  utilized, 
the  remainder  going  to  feed  the  vultures. 

There  is  no  longer  danger  from  brigands,  which 
have  been  stamped  out  very  effectually  by  the  Govern- 
ment. Foreigners  are  welcomed,  and  visitors  are 
treated  with  courtesy  and  consideration. 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Acatan,  village  of,  77;  Indians  of, 
80. 

Agriculture,  development  of,  38; 
how  conducted,  69,  72,  73;  in 
Sinaloa,  186,  198. 

Altata,  railroad  connection,  xvii; 
town  described,  166,  168,  169; 
hotel  accommodations,  170, 268. 

Americans,  railroads  managed  by, 
xviii;  land  surveys  and  devel- 
opment by,  xx,  xxi,  177,  185; 
capital  of,  invested  in  mines, 
xix;  welcomed  to  Mexico,  xxviii; 
in  Western  Mexico,  47;  influ- 
ence of  climate  upon,  72;  ex- 
travagance of , 101;  inTepic,  121; 
taken  advantage  of  by  venders, 
123;  consul  at  Mazatlan,  161, 
164,  272,  273;  fugitives  from 
justice,  167,  168;  miners  and 
prospectors,  173,  189,  209;  a 
reason  why  they  lose  sales  of 
mining  machinery  and  general 
merchandise,  210;  some  types 
met  in  Mexico,  252,  253;  in 
Monterey,  257. 

Animals  (wild),  various  species, 
279,  280,  282. 

Arms,  fashion  of  wearing  revol- 
vers, 11;  advisable  to  carry,  in 
outlying  districts,  193,  208; 
natives  go  armed,  216,  227;  re- 
strictions as  to,  290. 

Aztecs,  Prescott’s  estimate  of, 
xix;  virtue  and  industry  of,  57; 
Spanish  influence  upon  and 
degradation  of,  58;  their  love 
of  flowers,  88;  legends  of,  137; 


relics  of,  148;  in  Sinaloa,  175, 
176;  in  Mexico  City,  258. 

Banks,  competition  of,  for  Mexi- 
can loan,  xxvii. 

Bears,  various  species  found,  280, 
286,  287. 

Beggars,  103. 

Birds  (game),  282,  283,  284. 

Boers,  settlement  of,  xx. 

Brigands,  formerly  numerous,  xv, 
3;  Lozado,  111;  officers’  battle 
with,  134,  193,  245, 

Bull-fights,  180;  description  of, 
181,  182,  183. 

Burial  customs,  174. 

Business  methods,  159,  210. 

Cacti,  hedges  of,  198;  variety  cul- 
tivated for  fruit,  247. 

Canedo,  Governor  Francisco,  178, 
184. 

Canelas,  225,  228,  229;  churches, 
330;  mines  and  ancient  ore  mill, 
231. 

Canoes,  taxed,  62, 139;  dugouts  on 
Santiago  Rio,  25,  48,  51;  size 
and  capacity  of  dugouts,  62. 

Cargadores,  10,  12. 

Cattle,  breed,  31;  ranges,  38,  40; 
value  per  head  ahoof  on  range, 
75. 

Cerro  del  Creston  lighthouse,  9. 

Chacala,  mining  village,  204,  205, 

212. 

Children,  in  hot  country,  29,  41; 
status  of,  56,  63;  of  the  moun- 
tain Indians,  218,  219. 


296 


INDEX 


Chinese,  immigrants,  7;  stores,  15; 
fisheries,  152;  success  as  mer- 
chants and  traders,  153. 

Church,  teachings  of,  as  to  mar- 
riage, 56. 

Cigarettes,  82,  83. 

Cigars,  272,  273;  quality  of,  83, 
108. 

Civilization,  ancient,  ix;  among 
Indians,  29. 

Climate,  ix;  of  plateau,  x;  gen- 
eral misconception  of,  xx;  influ- 
ence upon  foreigners  in  hot 
districts,  72;  at  different  alti- 
tudes, 288,  289. 

Coal,  deposits  of,  xxiv. 

Coast  line,  extent  of,  ix. 

Coffee,  xxi,  108;  land  adapted  to, 
37,  44. 

Coins,  xxvi. 

Colonies,  of  Mormons  and  Boers, 
xx. 

Colonization,  failure  of  Spanish 
methods,  x;  contrasted  with 
British  and  American,  xi;  re- 
cent efforts  to  attract  colonists, 
xx ; plans  for,  in  western  states 
of  Mexico,  2,  185. 

Consuls,  German,  107;  Ameri- 
can, 161,  164,  272,  273. 

Conquest,  ix;  pre-conquest  caste, 
61. 

Copper,  fraudulent  mining  con- 
cerns, xxii;  deposits,  232. 

Cotton,  growing  of,  and  local 
demand  for  mills,  xxiv;  in  Tepic 
Territory,  38,  42,  75;  mills  in 
Tepic  City,  120;  mills  in  Culia- 
can,  179;  grown  in  Sinaloa, 
186. 

Courts,  slow  movement  of,  in  civil 
actions,  40. 

Courtship,  129. 

Crops,  method  of  cultivating  and 
harvesting,  74;  those  usually 
grown,  75,  76,  186,  187. 

Crosses,  by  roadside,  131;  indica- 
tive of  tragedies,  223. 


Culiacan,  railroad  connection, 
xvii;  capital  of  Sinaloa,  4;  stage 
connections,  84;  general  refer- 
ence to  and  description  of,  172, 
173,  175,  176,  177;  advanced 
social  conditions,  178,  179;  cele- 
bration upon  coming  of  rail- 
road, 267. 

Currency,  standard  of,  xxvi;  TJ.  S. 
gold  refused  in  exchange  for, 
107. 

Customs,  duties  how  reckoned, 
xxv ; methods  of  officials,  12,  13, 
167,  168. 

Deer,  59,  60,  80,  157,  246,  279; 
where  found  and  species,  281, 
287. 

Development  of  natural  resources, 
xvii. 

Diaz,  Porfirio,  xiii;  first  election 
to  Presidency,  xiv;  romantic 
fife  of,  xv ; Dictator  in  fact,  xvi; 
policy  towards  railroads,  xvii; 
condition  of  national  finances  at 
beginning  of  Presidency,  xxvi; 
national  advancement  under 
administration,  xxvii;  edict  as 
to  land  titles,  39;  efforts  to 
educate  and  elevate  the  people, 
58,  178;  his  age  and  what  may 
result  upon  his  death,  79. 

Durango,  2;  city  of,  255. 

Education,  xxviii,  58,  178. 

Exports,  extent  of,  xxv. 

Farming,  38,  69;  antiquated 

methods  in  vogue,  72,  73;  in 
Sinaloa,  186. 

Fever  (calentura),  plateau  not 
subject  to,  xx ; in  lower  alti- 
tudes, 42,  56,  121. 

Fiesta  days,  xxiv,  103;  All  Souls, 
107,  109,  110;  when  animals 
are  blessed,  111;  rehearsals  for, 
136. 

Finance,  xxvi,  xxvii. 


INDEX 


297 


Forests,  x,  xxix;  in  higher  alti- 
tudes, 33;  varieties  of  trees,  61; 
pine,  216,  224,  239. 

French,  invasion  of  Mexico, 
xiii,  xiv,  xv ; trade  with,  xxiv, 
xxv. 

Fruit,  opportunities  for  canning 
industries,  xxiv,  275. 

Fuerte  River,  51. 

Game,  varieties  and  where  found, 
157,  279,  280,  287;  birds,  282, 
283,  284;  license  for  hunting 
not  required,  286;  no  laws  pro- 
tecting, 290. 

Gardens,  88. 

German,  consul,  44,  107;  mer- 
chants, 107;  jealous  of  Amer- 
icans, 122;  mining  machinery, 
210. 

Germany,  trade  with,  xxiv. 

Gold,  fraudulent  mining  compa- 
nies, xxii;  medium  of  exchange, 
xxvi;  legends  of  hidden  mines 
and  treasure,  64,  68,  113;  mined 
in  Sinaloa  and  Durango,  208, 
231. 

Government,  various  forms  since 
independence  gained  from  Spain, 
xiii ; policy  of,  toward  foreigners 
and  industrial  development, 
xviii,  xxii,  xxiv;  promotion  of 
education,  xxviii;  local  criti- 
cisms of,  8;  methods  of  secur- 
ing income,  26;  problem  of  the 
peons,  78,  79;  methods  of  im- 
proving highways,  86. 

Gringo,  Americans  so  called  in  dis- 
respect, 47 ; origin  of  word,  48. 

Guadalajara,  2,  74. 

Guaymas,  2,  84,  177. 

Guides,  191,  192,  194,  195,  201; 
cost  of,  per  day,  286. 

Haciendas,  undeveloped,  xx; 
status  of  companies  advertising 
co-operative  stock  in,  xxii;  size 
of,  37;  value  of,  38;  native  man- 


agement of,  39,  60;  San  Nico- 
lds,  71;  their  stores  and  trading 
with  peons,  78. 

Hebrews,  55,  56,  133. 

Heron  (white),  destruction  of,  146. 

Historic  towns,  xxix. 

Honey  bees,  72. 

Hot  springs,  41. 

Hotels,  at  San  Bias,  13;  described, 
14,  92;  meals  served,  character- 
istic menus,  15,  92;  registration 
of  guests,  19;  primitive  type, 
32,  33;  Hotel  del  Bolo  de  Oro 
in  Tepic  City,  91;  American, 
93;  Mexican  and  American 
compared,  94;  tipping  waiters, 
95. 

Houses,  interior,  97,  108;  out- 
ward appearance,  104. 

Immigration,  efforts  to  attract, 
xviii;  laws  governing,  xix. 

Imports,  xxv. 

Indians,  proportion  of,  in  popula- 
tion, xii;  problem  of  regenera- 
tion, xxviii;  village  described, 
28;  method  of  making  tortillas, 
the  native  bread,  29;  moving, 
43;  runners,  52;  life  and  dress, 
54;  types,  55;  legends  of  mines, 
66,  68;  methods  of  farming,  69; 
their  plough,  72;  conservatism, 
73;  tendency  to  steal,  50;  handi- 
work, 103;  mines,  113,  117,  119; 
natives  of  Sinaloa  and  Tepic 
contrasted,  171;  hospitality  of, 
200;  mountain  dwellers  and 
homes,  217,  218,  219,  225;  un- 
cleanliness of  mountain  dwellers, 
239,  240;  compared  with  those 
of  other  regions,  241;  the  Yaquis, 
242;  government  treatment  of, 
243,  244;  politeness  and  hospi- 
tality of  canyon  dwellers,  265, 
266. 

Inhabitants,  ancient,  ix;  reduced 
by  Spaniards  to  serfdom,  xii; 
modern,  xvi. 


298 


INDEX 


Iron,  deposits  of,  xxiv. 

Irrigation,  xxi;  crops  grown  with- 
out, 38;  unnecessary  in  some 
localities,  76;  ancient  plants  in 
hill  country,  89;  plants  building 
in  Sinaloa,  185. 

Jaguar,  70,  281,  286,  287. 

Jails,  153;  described,  154. 

Jalisco,  1,  51. 

Javalin,  282,  287. 

Juarez,  President  Bonito,  xiii,  xiv. 

Labor,  cost  of,  xxiv,  75. 

Laborosa,  64,  65,  67,  71. 

Lake  Chapala,  51. 

Lands,  in  general,  x;  Spanish  neg- 
lect of  and  failure  to  cultivate, 
xi;  public  domain  unsurveyed, 
xix;  survey  and  colonization  in 
Sinaloa,  xxi;  values  of,  and 
proportion  cultivated,  38;  titles, 
39,  40,  41;  method  of  clearing, 
74;  cost  of  clearing,  75;  investors 
and  landlookers,  189. 

La  Presa,  45. 

Laws,  Spanish,  x;  liberal  provi- 
sions for  the  encouragement  of 
industrial  development,  xviii, 
xxiii,  178;  to  induce  immigra- 
tion, xix. 

Legends  of  the  Padre  Mercado, 
23;  of  Treasure  Hill,  63,  64;  of 
the  cathedral  bells  of  Tepic,  99; 
of  the  Padre  and  the  Cross, 
104;  The  Magic  Scale  and  the 
Padre’s  Corn,  114;  of  Mexcal- 
tatan,  137. 

Leopard,  281. 

Leprosy,  150. 

Limantour,  Jos6  Yves,  xxvii. 

Lozado,  Manuel,  brigand,  111; 
his  methods  of  operation  and 
final  execution,  112;  his  sense 
of  justice,  113. 

Magdalena  Bay,  5;  attitude  of 
newspapers  in  reference  to 


lease  to  U.  S.  Navy  as  practice 
ground,  8. 

Manufacturing,  opportunities  for, 
xxiii;  in  Tepic  City,  42,  120; 
of  sugar  in  Sinaloa,  172;  cotton 
in  Sinaloa,  179;  in  Mazatlan, 
275. 

Marismas  (swamps),  139;  un- 
healthful character  of,  140,  147, 
148. 

Markets,  limitation  of,  for  pro- 
duce, xix. 

Marriage,  56,  57,  179,  180. 

Maximilian,  xiv. 

Mazatlan,  3,  6,  8,  9,  10,  12,  20, 
152,  163;  smelters  to  be  erected, 
233;  description  of  city,  272; 
boom  in  progress,  273;  harbor 
and  trade,  274;  improved  sani- 
tation of,  275. 

Mescal,  xxiv,  15;  effect  of,  on  for- 
eigners, 110;  plant  from  which 
made,  187. 

Metric  system,  xxv. 

Mexcaltatan,  137;  last  of  pile- 
built  towns,  138. 

Mexico  City,  historical  interest 
of,  257;  cathedral  described, 
258;  relics  of  the  conquest, 
259;  interesting  suburbs,  281, 
286. 

Minerals,  x,  xxiii. 

Mines,  paying  operations,  xxiii; 
legends  of,  64,  65,  66,  68,  113, 
117,  119,  203;  in  Sinaloa,  209, 
231;  extent  of  and  production, 
232;  cost  of  ore  transporta- 
tion to  smelters,  233;  non- 
paying ore,  235;  abandoned 
Spanish  workings,  236;  bonan- 
zas, 237. 

Mining,  fraudulent  schemes,  xxii, 
236;  American  investment  in 
and  laws  governing,  xxiii;  op- 
erations affected  by  financial 
depression  in  U.  S.,  174,  207, 
208,  209,  231;  cause  of  failures, 
233,  234;  failure  seldom  due 


INDEX 


299 


Mining  ( continued ) 
to  non-paying  ore,  235;  in 
Durango,  255. 

Money,  comparative  value  of, 
xx  vi. 

Monopolies,  not  permitted,  xxvi. 

Monterey,  256;  American  colony 
and  need  of  hotel,  257. 

Morality,  degeneration  under 
Spanish  rule,  xii;  of  peons  at 
present,  56,  57. 

Mormon  colonies,  xx. 

Mountain  lion,  281,  286. 

Music,  48;  mournful  character  of 
in  Tepic,  129;  in  Culiacan,  179. 

Natives.  (See  Indians.) 

Navarret e,  Indian  village  of,  32; 
Hacienda,  37,  38,  41,  44,  76, 
82,  84,  86. 

Officials,  policy  and  attitude  of, 
toward  investors,  xxiii. 

Opportunities,  in  western  states, 
44,  275. 

Pacific  Mail  S.  S.  Line,  276. 

Panther,  American,  281. 

Pawn  shops,  104;  methods  of 
doing  business,  105. 

Peons.  (See  Indians.) 

Plateau,  altitude  of  and  climate, 
x;  opening  and  development  of, 
xvii. 

Police,  17,  18,  19,  20,  105,  154. 

Politicians,  selfish  ambitions  of, 
xiii,  xvi,  79,  168. 

Population,  Indian  proportion  of, 
xii;  character  of,  in  general,  xvi; 
distribution,  4. 

Products,  variety  of,  x;  markets 
for,  xix;  of  Sinaloa  and  Tepic,  xxi. 

Promoters,  dishonest  schemes  of, 
xxii. 

Prospectors,  47;  turning  atten- 
tion to  Tepic,  68;  in  Sinaloa, 
173,  189. 

Prosperidad,  General,  xviii. 


Public  Domain,  39. 

Pulque,  xxiv;  how  made,  109; 
taste  and  appearance  of,  110; 
description  of  plant  from  which 
made,  182. 

Quarantine,  enforcement  of,  7, 
10,  163,  275. 

Railroads,  their  development, 
xvii;  managed  by  Americans, 
xviii;  Central  and  National 
Lines,  xviii;  now  building  in 
western  states,  xxi,  2,  43;  atti- 
tude of  Germans  toward,  in 
Tepic,  122;  between  Altata 
and  Culiacan,  168,  169,  170, 
171 ; other  connections,  177 ; cour- 
teousness of  employes,  254 ; 
construction  camps  at  Mazat- 
lan,  273;  proposed  line  to 
Durango,  274. 

Rainy  season,  27,  84. 

Real  estate,  liberal  laws  as  to 
foreign  ownership,  xviii;  values, 
38;  titles,  39,  40,  41. 

Religion,  under  Spanish  rule,  xii. 

Resources,  ix;  agricultural,  44, 
89;  mineral,  231. 

Revenue,  national,  xxvii;  stamps, 
13;  ferries  a source  of,  26; 
internal  tax  general,  62. 

Rivers,  3,  84,  89. 

Rubber,  fraudulent  plantation 
schemes,  xxii;  offers  possibil- 
ities, 37;  its  profits  not  yet 
demonstrated,  61. 

Ruins,  ancient,  ix,  x,  xxix,  90;  of 
Spanish  period,  22,  23. 

Rurales,  xvi;  organization  of,  134; 
efficiency  of,  135. 

San  Bias,  7,  11,  152. 

Sanitation,  42,  56. 

San  Marcos,  43,  84,  85. 

Santiago  Ixcuintla,  42,  43,  45; 
description  of  town,  48,  49,  77; 
stage  connection,  84. 


300 


INDEX 


Santiago  Papasquiaro,  254. 

Santiago  Rio,  21,  23,  45;  canoe 
navigation  of,  48;  description 
of,  51. 

Santos  Pac,  139. 

Scenery,  ix,  xxix. 

Schools,  xxviii,  153. 

Serials,  varieties  of,  xxi. 

Settlers,  efforts  to  attract,  xix; 
in  Sinaloa,  xxi. 

Sinaloa,  capital,  xvii;  colonization 
plans,  xx ; natural  resources  of 
state,  xxi;  topography,  3,  171; 
general  descriptions  of,  154, 
185,  188,  189,  198;  sugar  manu- 
facturing, 172. 

Sinaloa  Land  Co.,  177,  184,  185. 

Silver,  cause  of  mine  failures,  xxii; 
as  medium  of  exchange,  xxvi; 
mines  in  Tepic,  68;  mines  in 
Sinaloa  and  Durango,  208,  231, 
232. 

Sisal  fibre  (henequen),  xxi;  prof- 
its in  and  how  grown  and  mar- 
keted, 188. 

Smelters,  need  for,  xxiii;  to  be 
built,  233. 

Social  condition,  of  peons,  56,  57. 

Soil,  products  of,  x;  proportion 
untilled,  xx,  38;  character  of 
in  Sinaloa,  xxi,  171,  204;  in 
Tepic,  27,  43,  51. 

Soldiers,  19,  24,  105. 

Spain,  unfortunate  colonization 
methods,  x;  reasons  for  her 
failure  to  plant  progressive, 
permanent  colonies,  xi;  her 
selfish  government  of  Mexico, 
xiii;  peons  under  her  rule, 
xxviii;  destruction  of  ancient 
records  by  Spaniards,  137. 

Sportsmen,  inducements  offered, 
xxix;  attractions  in  western 
Mexico,  219;  seldom  seen  in 
Mexico,  283,  285;  best  season 
for  visit,  290. 

Stage  travel,  3,  43;  line  and  ve- 
hicle described,  84,  85,  86,  132. 


Stores,  15,  101;  varying  prices, 
102;  bearing  names,  104. 

Sugar  growing,  xxiv,  42;  in  Sina- 
loa, 172,  186. 

Swamps,  characteristic  of  coast, 
140,  147,  148. 

Tejada,  President  Lerdo  de, 
xiv. 

Temperature,  in  the  mountains, 
205,  216,  221,  222,  225,  226, 
241,  246. 

Tepehuanes,  190,  247,  248,  250. 

Tepic,  Territory  of,  new  railroad 
connection,  xxi,  122;  rivers  of, 
3;  supply  of  water  for  irriga- 
tion, 44,  51;  water  power,  76; 
mines,  68. 

Tequila,  alcoholic  liquor,  15, 

110. 

Theater,  in  San  Bias,  16;  in 
Tepic,  124;  audience  and  play, 
126. 

Timber,  89;  pine  and  abandoned 
lumbering  operations,  216,  239. 

Tobacco,  xxi,  38,  76,  82,  83, 
123. 

Trade,  growing  with  U.  S.,  xxiv; 
reason  why  much  is  lost,  210. 

Trails,  to  the  plateau,  190,  191, 
199,  203,  213,  214,  215,  222, 
225,  265. 

Transportation,  xix;  of  merchan- 
dise to  outlying  points,  xxv,  3; 
lack  of  facilities,  232,  234. 

Travel,  safety  of,  xvi. 

Treasure,  hidden,  113. 

Trout,  288. 

Trusts,  xxvi. 

Turkeys,  wild,  282. 

United  States,  enforcement  of 
Monroe  Doctrine  against 
France,  xiv;  opportunities  for 
settlers  from,  xxi;  trade  with, 
xxv;  feeling  towards,  xxviii; 
navy  vessels  at  Magdalena  Bay, 
6,  8. 


INDEX  301 


Vanilla  Bean,  75. 

Vaqueros,  135. 

Vera  Cruz,  xvii,  22,  52,  83. 

Water,  abundance  of,  in  Sinaloa, 
xxi,  185;  power  in  Tepic,  76, 
120;  carriers,  49,  59. 

Water  fowl,  145,  283,  284. 


Wilderness,  unknown  areas  of, 
xxix. 

Women,  in  colonization,  xi;  peon 
unattractive,  55;  unhappy,  129, 
130;  dress,  180;  of  the  moun- 
tains, 218,  219. 

Yellow  journals,  xxviii,  8,  276. 


5833 


